


Dissertation Omens: Ineffable Doctorates

by georgina_bulsara



Series: Dissertation Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Anxiety, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Teaching, almost holding hands on the bus, crying in the library, french lit, grad students au, some non-explicit sort of drunken sex, struggle of grad school, they are in loooovvveee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21543283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/georgina_bulsara/pseuds/georgina_bulsara
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are grad students in the same French PhD programme. Crowley isn't sure if grad school is the place for him, whereas Aziraphale seems like he was born to be there. In this story, they navigate their first year of grad school as well as their feelings for each other, through all the ups and downsGrad School!AU
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Dissertation Omens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588846
Comments: 73
Kudos: 133
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Long Distance Siblings, Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well hello there. i never expected to be writing good omens fanfic, even 24hrs ago, but i've been having writer's block with other things and this popped into my head, so i wrote it in like 30 mins before i thought better of it. 
> 
> fair warning to anyone who hasn't seen the good place - if you've managed to avoid spoilers this long, you might not want to read this chapter. it is mentioned in here and i tried writing about it in a way that didn't obviously spoil anything, but if you really don't want to see anything about it, this is the warning. not talked about in detail
> 
> this takes place in a fuzzy british/american environment. based on a US university, but there will be britishisms as well. apologies for inconsistencies - just imagine it in an unspecified time and place. 
> 
> this was written very quickly so i might come back and edit for typos - but i plan on continuing with this fic, even if i'm a bit of a slow writer usually! come say hello on tumblr (georginabulsara)
> 
> lastly, if at any point the rating changes, i will notify in the notes! thank you for reading, hope you enjoy!

Crowley strained to hold the door to his flat open wide enough to haul the heavy grocery bags inside, but not wide enough to allow his cat to escape. Lucifer, fortunately, was nowhere to be seen. Crowley let the door slam shut and stumbled onto his sofa, leaving the bags at the entrance. Sweat dripped down his entire body, drenching his shirt and resulting in an unpleasant stickiness to his whole being. He had to drip-dry in the nude before anything else was possible.

Crowley had just attended his first official meeting as a grad student, one of a handful of people who thought it wise to pursue a career in living, breathing, and teaching French literature. It hadn’t been a clear-cut decision, but after no luck finding a fulfilling job with his bachelor’s degree, and a tickling sensation of craving those glorified book clubs that were French lit seminars, he’d bitten the bullet and applied to the best French programme he could find. If anything, spending five years in a funded PhD programme would allow him to put off a commitment to a real job a little longer.

The meeting had been more of a meet-and-greet, free lunch included, with all of the faculty there to answer any questions. “Ask as many questions as you like—no question is a stupid question,” the Director of Graduate Studies had reassured everyone at the start of the luncheon. As the meeting dragged on, Crowley found himself with the burning question, _“was this the smartest decision? Should I quit right now?”_ But he hadn’t asked it out loud.

Back in his overpriced dump of an apartment, surrounded by overpriced groceries from the corner store in between campus and his street, Crowley mulled over the slew of information about starting grad school. The rest of the week was to be full of awful (he was sure of it) orientation activities and a crash-course in pedagogy. Teaching was perhaps the thing he was most dreading, even though the thought of his dissertation certainly loomed forebodingly. But at least he had five years to complete that—in a mere week, he’d have to face a classroom full of over-eager, or perhaps under-motivated undergraduates, and embark on a semester-long journey of introducing them to the French language. It was daunting to say the least, particularly since he had no teaching experience whatsoever.

Finally feeling a little less like an overheated hamster not used to exercising, Crowley slinked off his sofa and grabbed a tin of LaCroix (he would never admit that he bought the stuff, and he would never correct anyone’s pronunciation of it, but he certainly welcomed the cool, fizzy liquid in his permanently dehydrated state). After guzzling nearly the whole drink without stopping, he gasped a breath and looked around for his cat.

“Lucifer,” he called out, accompanying the call with a few pspsps sounds—the feline definitely didn’t know his own name and never came unless summoned with kissing noises. Adopting a cat was probably one of the best moves he’d made in preparation for the upcoming endeavor of grad school. Nothing made him happier than coming home to the black tabby curled in a tight ball at the foot of his bed, basked in the late-afternoon sunlight.

A subdued meow came out from the direction of his bedroom. Lucifer trotted into the living room, but before Crowley had the chance to give him a good head rub, the cat had let out a strangled yelp. His body tensed and he began heaving in the most unnatural way. All Crowley could do was look down in disgust as Lucifer proceeded to toss up his entire digestive tract onto the floor. Luckily, this place wasn’t carpeted.

Crowley grimaced while cleaning up the vomit, then took the opportunity to clean his hands, face, and, while he was at it, torso, before putting on a dry shirt and briefs. He gathered his hair, which had been plastered to the back of his neck, into a bun at the top of his head. It had just gotten long enough to be able to tie back, and for that, he was grateful. He didn’t want to cut it, but in this heat he _needed_ it to be at ponytail length.

It was only 6pm, but Crowley was already exhausted. It was going to take some adjusting to ease back into life in academia. Just one afternoon of socialising with his peers had just about done him in, and he had a whole day of it to look forward to tomorrow. Not to mention the coursework that would come the following week when classes started.

In the name of self-care, Crowley planned his evening: rather than attempting to meet and befriend any neighbours, he would allow himself several episodes of television before preparing dinner, continuing to unpack his belongings, and doing some light reading before bedtime. Going to bed early would be a good idea—if he weren’t so close to an acceptable bedtime already, Crowley would be very partial to a nap.

\---

Several hours later, Crowley had only done one of the things on his informal to-do list. The sun had set and he was still slumped on the sofa, laptop dimly lit on the coffee table as it played an episode of _The Good Place_ on low-battery. Lucifer was happily (he assumed—why weren’t cats more emotive?) curled at the other end of the sofa. He felt a vague pang of hunger in his stomach, but the laziness of not wanting to prepare any of the food in the kitchen had trumped his appetite, and he didn’t plan on amending that before bed.

Crowley had already seen _The Good Place_ a number of times, but he still found joy in rewatching it. It wasn’t necessarily an intellectual show, but it managed to pose some poignant questions about the nature of humanity, and for that reason he prioritised it over other certain indulgent sitcoms he enjoyed. Crowley was amused by the characters and the rollercoaster plots they were constantly sent on, but a part of him desperately wished the series would show the actual Bad Place in more detail. He had to admit, that interested him a lot more than the idea of a cheery, perpetually sunny afterlife. He was rooting for Eleanor and Chidi, though. Crowley could identify with Chidi’s anxiety, and even more so with Eleanor’s natural snarky disposition, and he secretly thought they were adorable together.

The red flash indicating only 5% battery left finally prompted Crowley to close his laptop and rub his eyes of their exhaustion. He reached over to switch on a lamp, but realised he hadn’t managed to find any lightbulbs yet. He looked at his phone to check the time, but inevitably forgot and started scrolling through social media instead. Mindlessly skimming some unnecessary update on an old acquaintance’s dog’s surgery, Crowley tried to recall the names of some of his French-department colleagues.

There had been a young, attractive woman with circular glasses who was interested in studying the relationship between France and the Iberian peninsula in the Middle Ages. He strained to remember her name, thinking it might be something Hispanic, but he had no such luck. She seemed approachable enough—maybe he’d try to talk to her tomorrow.

There was also a man who, he remembered distinctly, had been carrying a briefcase and wore a bowtie. He looked like he could be a professor, but was a fellow PhD candidate. His name was also something strange and long, and Crowley had zoned out several times as the man had elaborated on his very specific research interests. The man had come across as very driven, and Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already written half of his dissertation draft. Something about him seemed fundamentally kind and open, though, and Crowley wished he could recall his name so that he could look him up on social media.

Unable to recall the names of any of his peers, Crowley resorted to looking up professors on Facebook. With immaculate care not to click on any like buttons, he typed “Marie Ledieu” into the search bar and found the DGS’s profile with ease. Almost nothing was public on her page, but he still detected a very kind and encouraging presence, just as he had felt when she spoke at the luncheon. Crowley could not help but feel intimidated nonetheless, just as he was by the man in the bowtie. People who seemed to know exactly what their purpose was in life, and clearly had the motivation to pursue it, made him feel an inkling of imposter syndrome.

Crowley sighed and put aside his phone before he could get any more wrapped up in feelings of inadequacy. He tried to coax Lucifer to come into his bedroom, but the cat didn’t follow verbal instructions, and Crowley was too hesitant to try picking him up. He fancied himself to be quite a cat person, but in reality he didn’t have very much experience with the creatures. It was more that he felt a deep connection to them on an existential level.

Setting his alarm, Crowley finally remembered to check what time it was—he would get a good 8 hours sleep still if he went to bed now. He checked the orientation schedule on his email before going to bed, resolving to get up with enough time to check out the nearest coffee shop before heading to whatever the day’s agenda would bring. He let down his hair, removed all his clothing (why didn’t these apartments have air conditioning!?), and slithered between the sheets. It was quite a bit of time later that he finally drifted off, spread-eagled across the bed in an attempt to find a position where he wouldn’t sweat to death.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i have too much fun adapting characters into the alternate universe  
> \--i will probably be creating some OCs to be part of the cohort aziraphale and crowley are in, but they likely won't be developed far at all. Az/Crow is for sure the focus, but I enjoy adding bits about some of the other characters now and then

Having made the horrible error of turning off the alarm with the false promise to just lay in bed for a few more minutes before getting up, Crowley did not get up early enough to check out the nearby coffee shop. Instead, he scrambled to get to the language building, Tadfield Hall, in time for a visit to the sub-par campus café on the ground floor before heading up to the third floor for the start of the day. 

The campus was completely deserted since undergraduate classes didn’t start for another week. The employees in the café had clearly had very few customers to serve and continued their passionate discussion about a television show Crowley surprisingly hadn’t heard of while he squinted up at the menu. He adjusted his round sunglasses to be able to peer over the rims at the prices. 

“Having trouble deciding?” said a voice over his shoulder. With a backwards glance, Crowley saw that it was Bowtie man. Although today, surprisingly, he wasn’t wearing a bowtie, or even a regular tie. He was still completely overdressed, in a long-sleeved tartan shirt and tan trousers, perfectly polished dress shoes. An amused little smile played upon his rather plump lips, and Crowley almost thought he detected a twinkle in his eye, of all things. Completely out of order for this early in the morning, he thought. 

“Just wondering if the coffee will be any good or if I should opt for latte to mask the taste,” he replied dryly. 

“I find that the best coffee around here is from the Eternal Cup, on the South side of campus, if you’re looking for quality,” No-Bowtie quipped. “I think I’ll just get a tea to tide me over ‘til lunch.” He stepped forward to politely place his order and stood aside to allow Crowley to amble up to the till. He decided to take the man’s comment as a suggestion to avoid the plain black coffee.

“A small latte, please,” said Crowley. “With soy milk,” he added as an afterthought, remembering that it would be unwise to give himself terrible digestive issues when he was meant to be focusing. 

“That’ll be 5.50, please,” said the barista. Crowley’s eyes bugged out of their sockets—everything about this town was turning out to be madly out of his price range. 

“Shit,” Crowley muttered as he patted his pockets with a sinking feeling as he realised he’d left his wallet at the flat. As if he had been watching Crowley closely enough to be able to immediately notice this problem, his fellow grad student appeared at his side and pulled out his own wallet. 

“Allow me,” said the man. Crowley could hardly refuse the offer, but he was distinctly annoyed by the fact that he now owed this stuffy grad student a good portion of his weekly budget. He considered cancelling the order, but the barista had already started whisking the milk and he didn’t want to be an inconvenience. 

“Thanks,” Crowley practically hissed through his teeth. 

“Oh, no worries! Us doctoral students must look out for each other, mustn't we? I’ll see you upstairs…” He paused. “I’m terribly sorry, what was your name again?”

“Crowley. Er, Anthony Crowley, but I prefer Crowley.”

“Ah, surnames. Professional. Professorial,” the man beamed. “Lovely to meet you, Crowley, my name is Azira Fell, but I rather prefer to go by my first name in informal settings.” 

Crowley took Fell’s extended hand, mentally noting his name for future social-media stalking purposes. Before he had time to acknowledge the introduction with a nod, or even a blink really, Azira Fell turned to leave the café. Crowley was left staring after him, almost forgetting to pick up his latte before following to the conference room. 

\---

The long day of orientation activities proved itself to be just that—incredibly long. They spent a good deal more time doing formal introductions before diving into pedagogical practices and university protocol. Professors in the department dropped in and out throughout the day, and Crowley tried to observe closely the ones he’d be having class with.

There was Béla Z. Leprince, who went by the name Professor BZL, pronounced Beezle. They were the scholar Crowley most looked forward to working with for his eventual dissertation, since they were the appointed expert on contemporary French lit, and specialised in both existentialism and monstrosity in literature. Whatever that meant. Crowley supposed he would find out in their class. 

When Prof BZL sauntered in to introduce themselves to the new crop of grad students, Crowley knew it was them before they even opened their mouth. Prof BZL seemed so cool and laid-back on paper (Crowley had spent a lot of time pouring over their witty bio on the webpage), but in person seemed much more intimidating. They gave off an air as if to say that the last thing they would want was snivelling first-years dropping in to ask mundane questions. Crowley tried not to get too worked up at the thought of a one-on-one meeting with such an impressive scholar, and instead looked around at his classmates.

After a break for lunch they got a glimpse of another departmental hot-shot—Gabriel Angelot. Despite his name, Professor Angelot was not French, and greeted the room in an assertive American accent. He welcomed them warmly to the department, but Crowley could not help but feel that the enthusiasm was a tad performative. Gabriel was the Chair of the department, and also the go-to expert on all things 19th century. He had recently published an entire book on the Second Empire of France, which he somehow managed to slip into the brief introduction he gave no less than three times. 

When Crowley took a moment to gauge his classmates’ reactions to this supposed genius, he noticed Azira Fell was gazing obsessively at Professor Angelot. Crowley worked hard to restrain an eyeroll and tried to tell himself that it was too early in the semester to develop prejudiced impressions of his superiors and colleagues. 

As for his colleagues, most of them seemed very serious about this whole grad school thing. None of them looked like they’d be much fun at all; not one of them seemed like the person you could go to mid essay-writing crisis and have a little cathartic cry with. They all looked like they ate academic articles for breakfast and spent the majority of the day researching and doing productive writing. 

The only ones who had even given Crowley the time of day were Azira Fell—he kept sliding tentative looks in Crowley’s direction and half-smiling—and the strange girl he remembered from the luncheon, whose name was Anathema Device. Her laptop was covered with odd stickers (maybe obscure bands?), and she had a portable mug with her that smelled suspiciously like mate infusion, or maybe kombucha. Crowley still hadn’t talked to her, but he had a feeling that he would and that they would get along very well. Eventually. 

At the end of the day, all the new students headed over to the administrator’s office to pick up their keys to the mailroom. The office smelled of incense and was very dimly lit, due to the colourful curtains draping all over the windows, as well as the walls. Crowley thought it a little strange for a university office, but when the administrator appeared out of the shadows, it suddenly wasn’t weird at all. She was an eccentric older lady, with long fingernails (how did she type with them? Where was the computer?) and bright red hair. Madame Tracy didn’t speak French, but she was clearly devoted to serving the department’s administrative needs. 

“Hellooo darlings, welcome to Tadfield Hall! I hope you’ve all gotten off to a wondrous start,” she said, distributing keys as if they were sweets. “I do hope you’ve settled in and can have a relaxing pint together after such a grueling first day,” she smiled. Crowley almost snorted. He doubted any of his colleagues would be going for a “relaxing” anything, much less a drink. 

An hour later, Crowley was eating his words (or thoughts, rather), seated in a booth at the local pub, Heavenly Brew. Despite his initial judgements, practically the entire cohort very much wanted a drink, and they had all walked over together. Crowley found himself squashed between Azira and Anathema, listening to everyone’s complaints about the difficulty of moving to a new city. 

He figured this was as good a time as any to pay Azira back for the coffee from the morning, but remembered that he still didn’t have his damn wallet. As if reading his thoughts, Azira placed a hand on Crowley’s arm and told him he could cover his drink, no worries. 

Crowley baulked at the offer, trying to work out the math of how much he would owe Fell if he accepted. Azira was hearing none of it, though. “Relax, dear boy! There will be plenty of opportunities to pay me back in future, you mustn’t worry about it.” Crowley smiled weakly, feeling like maybe this wasn’t going to be too bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a bit more introductory stuff for the AU, but some things will happen soon i expect! thanks for reading and leaving kudos and such :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure if this warrants a warning, but in case it does, there is a panic attack (briefly) described in this chapter  
> in case you couldn't tell, parts of this story are heavily influenced by my own stint in grad school, which was stressful to say the least :D but i'll try not to focus too much on the negatives and move forward with aziraphale and crowley's relationship most of the time  
> enjoy!

After a grueling orientation week, it was time for real classes to begin. The cohort had gotten together for drinks at the beginning of the weekend, but nothing had been planned in between Saturday and Monday morning. 

On his part, Crowley was glad for the breather. After being bombarded with information every day from 9 to 5, he needed a couple of days to himself with as little human interaction as possible. This didn’t mean, however, that he didn’t think about his new acquaintances, and wonder how close they might become over the course of their studies at the university. 

On Saturday, rather than explore the other parts of campus or venture outside of the university bubble, he remained mainly splayed across his sofa with a fan pointed directly at his upper-body while he blasted music from his record player (it had been a gift from his godmother upon graduation, a gift he cherished deeply because vinyl was supremely _in_ these days). On his phone, Crowley made a better go at snooping on his cohort. 

He found Anathema easily enough, and saw that she was the sort of person who posted motivational quotes in French, pictures of her workstation bathed in perfect lighting, and the occasional second-hand outfit she was proud of putting together. Some of the quotes made Crowley cringe, but he had to admit that Anathema’s cool-as-a-cucumber personality seemed to come through even on her social media, and he still wanted to be friends with her. 

Azira Fell was slightly harder to track down on social media, but Crowley eventually found a profile, bare and lacking in consistency. He hadn’t really expected to find anything there—Azira hardly seemed like the type to overshare online—but the profile picture looked recent enough, so surely he must use the platform a little. Crowley’s finger hovered over the ‘friend’ button, but he quickly thought better of it and went back to the Google search page. 

There, he was hardly surprised to see several links to Fell’s academic accomplishments—he could see his full CV, as well as a number of publications in respectable journals, grants he’d received to study abroad, articles celebrating his hard work. Seeing such things about any other fellow classmate usually made Crowley boil over with either jealousy or animosity, but for some reason he didn’t quite feel that way browsing Azira’s accolades. He felt a twinge of admiration, alongside a feeling of intense unworthiness. Surely there was no way he and Azira could have ended up in the same PhD programme! What would class even be like with a student like him? Fell could most likely teach most of the curriculum himself. 

On Sunday, Crowley had begun to feel even more panicked at the prospect of starting the week. He poured over his schedule in his tiny kitchen as he drank his fourth espresso of the day. Mon-Fri he had to teach— _teach!_ He’d never taught _anyone_ anything in his life!—French 101 at 10am. Since he was a first-year student, he hadn’t had much choice about teaching schedules, and he already knew that dragging himself to Tadfield Hall by 10 was going to be supremely difficult. On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays he had a three-hour seminar for each of the three classes he was enrolled in—the seminars began at 14h and would end at 17h, which seemed to him like the worst time of day to have a class. But at least Wednesday and Friday afternoons were free, if only to catch up on massive amounts of reading. 

Sunday afternoon, Crowley cleaned his entire flat while Lucifer got in his way at every turn. He cleared his desk of all clutter and neatly laid out his schedule and the materials he would need for his first teaching class the next morning. He organised his wardrobe by colour (ranging from pitch black to murky grey) and lined up the only shoes he owned: black Chelsea boots, black lace-up boots, black Adidas trainers, and, for special occasions, black dress shoes. 

In the evening, he decided to make an effort at being healthy and nourished by cooking the kale that was wilting away in his fridge. Lucifer sat next to him on the sofa as Crowley half-heartedly picked through his kale stir-fry and rice and watched an NPR Tiny Desk concert on his laptop. 

10 pm rolled around, and he took a scorching hot shower, even though it was still sweltering outside. When he got out, Crowley languidly rubbed moisturiser all over his body. With care, he worked leave-in conditioner into his hair—had to have it looking nice and soft for the fresh start of classes. He did some calming stretches before ultimately curling into bed, with the sheets thrown to the side so he wouldn’t suffocate. 

\---

Aziraphale was made for academia—he felt like he belonged in a university seminar before he had ever even set foot in one. He _looked_ like he belonged in a library surrounded by books, or in an office surrounded by books and articles he’d written, or at a conference presenting on his groundbreaking research. He had even already been published in an undergraduate journal several years ago, when he had made the decision to go professionally as simply Azira Fell. He felt it had a better ring to it than Aziraphale Fell, which sounded more like a stumble than an assertive name. 

He had chosen the French Department housed in Tadfield Hall because it was the most notorious for producing cutting-edge professors who were wildly successful in their field of research. He intended to make his mark on the faculty, build his network, and hopefully attain a tenure-track position by the time he finished his degree. He also hoped to prove to his lawyer-family that going into the humanities (and in particular, French literature) _could_ be a noble and fruitful career choice. His father in particular had not been thrilled about the direction he’d taken, and if anything, that only motivated him all the more to be the best scholar he could be. 

At his undergraduate university, Aziraphale had shadowed a number of professors as a TA, and served as a private tutor for secondary-school students. He was perfectly comfortable standing in front of a classroom and tediously reviewing grammar points, even if he’d rather be discussing his own research. 

At 8h30 am on Monday, Aziraphale was already in Tadfield Hall, dutifully making copies of his syllabi for his 9 o’clock French 101 class. He had also printed out the names of students enrolled in his class so he could take the register and hopefully make a valiant effort at memorising their names as quickly as possible. He liked to write any details that students included in their brief introductions to the class in the margins of the sheet—it often helped students feel more comfortable and welcome if the instructor remembered something about them, he found. 

The first day was always a breeze. Classes were only 50 minutes long, so by the time each student had said a little bit about themselves and why they were taking French, all Aziraphale really had time to do was hand out the syllabus and explain the curriculum—which textbook they would need, the dates of the exams and projects, how much grammar they were expected to get through by the end of the semester. He always left them with a motivational little spiel at the end about the worth of learning a foreign language, and to not hesitate to email him or come to office hours if they were having any difficulty at all. 

He dismissed the class (mostly first-years, by the look of them) at 9h48 with a friendly smile and a taste of the French to come: _“À demain ! Portez-vous bien.”_ The students, looking fatigued already, filed out slowly into the corridor. Aziraphale was the last one out, ready to head to a café for some light reading before his first seminar. Outside the doorway, there were some students already waiting to get in the room for the next class—a boy and a girl waiting outside eagerly greeted two boys in his own class, whose names were, if Aziraphale remembered correctly, Brian and Wensleydale. 

Before Aziraphale could get out of earshot, he heard the girl say in a loud whisper, “How was it? Do you think it will be a hard course?”

The boy named Brian replied, “I think it’ll be difficult, but we’ve got a great professor, I can tell he’s gonna be good. Who’s teaching your section? If they’re no good, you and Adam should switch to the 9am class with us.”

“I don’t know, they’ve got to be a _really_ bad teacher to be worth losing an hour of sleep over though,” said the other boy, Adam. “Let’s meet up afterwards and compare notes.” 

Aziraphale rounded the corner rather smugly, Brian’s compliment turning his mouth upwards into a little grin. Yes, he was going to enjoy this semester. He prided himself on his teaching skills—this was where he was meant to be. 

He passed by the TA office to drop off his teaching folder and grab his briefcase, then stopped in the loo at the end of the corridor. This lavatory was not technically reserved for faculty, but being at the end of the corridor where there were only offices and conference rooms, it remained largely undiscovered by undergraduates, and was usually empty. For this reason, Aziraphale was slightly taken aback when he opened the door to the loo and heard someone gasping for breath in one of the cubicles. 

Aziraphale walked forward slowly and saw that the someone was crouched by the toilet, hands gripping their thighs. At the sound of his footsteps, the person stumbled to their feet and attempted to regulate their breathing, to no avail. They were wearing all black, and Aziraphale thought the clunky boots looked a bit familiar. 

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale said in the calmest timbre he could muster. The person in the stall choked over a rasping breath, and Aziraphale wondered if perhaps he was making it worse and would do best to leave. Then he heard a deep exhale. 

“Az - Azira?” uttered a familiar voice in between choked-back sobs. Aziraphale put two and two together. 

“Yes, it’s Azira Fell. Crowley, is that you? Are you alright?”

“I - yes, I’m just feeling. A little nervous, I guess. I’m fine.” Crowley was still breathing very heavily, but he seemed to have stopped hyperventilating and was able to hold a conversation. 

“That’s perfectly normal to feel that way,” Aziraphale asserted. After a pause, “I find that it helps to focus on breathing.”

The door to the cubicle opened. “Yep, I know,” said Crowley, crossing over to the sink. He leant over to splash water on his face and Aziraphale tried to avert his eyes from the curved form of his long torso bent over the sink. “I’m used to it,” Crowley said with a deep, shuddering exhale. Collecting himself, he looked up at the mirror and squinted at Aziraphale through the reflection. “I have to teach in about five minutes,” he remarked darkly. “Have you already taught today?”

“Yes, I just finished with my class. They were lovely,” Aziraphale said in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “What room do you teach in? Would you like me to accompany you over…?” 

“Nah, I need to give off a menacing first impression, you know. Better if I don’t have a sidekick watering down that image,” Crowley said dryly, straightening up to his full height. Which was quite tall, Aziraphale noted. And long. 

“But it’s room 332,” Crowley muttered, as if suddenly remembering that he really must go. 

Aziraphale’s face brightened. “Oh, that’s the same room I teach in! What a nice coincidence.” 

Crowley nodded slowly, perhaps trying to work out why Aziraphale found that rather mundane fact so exciting. “Well, I’d better be going then.” 

“Best of luck,” Aziraphale offered. “They really are lovely students, and for some of them this might be their first university class ever. Don’t intimidate them too much!” In response, Crowley bared his teeth. 

“If you want... “ Aziraphale trailed off before Crowley gave him a questioning look. “Well, we could meet after you’re done teaching and get a coffee before we have the first seminar. Compare notes, and such.” 

Crowley seemed to be completely back to normal now, even though his body still looked tensed and his auburn hair was slightly unkempt. After a beat, he gave Aziraphale a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, alright.” He nodded as he swung open the door. “See ya, Azira.”

And then he was gone, and Aziraphale was left standing slightly dazed in the subtle cloud of musky cologne Crowley left behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to say hello in the comments or on tumblr! @sabine-aubergine or @georginabulsara  
> thanks for reading !


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made newt a barista. and i know i named a character michael, but i wasn't even thinking of the angel michael, so this one's just a namesake of the character in good omens  
> thank you for reading, commenting, leaving kudos!

Crowley marched out of the lavatory and sped down the corridor at a steady swagger. As mortified as he was, he was adamant not to let this _episode_ interfere with his composure, particularly in front of a class of students he would have to see nearly every day for the next several months. 

He dodged into the offices to pick up his things, glancing at the clock—it was exactly 9h59, which meant he could be one of those teachers who swept cooly into the classroom right on the dot to begin lecturing on time. He willed himself to catch his breath and stop sweating so profusely, although he knew that that would probably be impossible for about the next hour at least. 

Outside the classroom door, for a split second, Crowley thought he was going to have to go back to the loo and hover pathetically over the toilet until the class period ended. But he remembered what Aziraphale had said—these students were probably nervous as well, maybe even more than he was. For all they knew, he was a very experienced lecturer. He had a syllabus, he spoke French. What more did he need? 

On the other side of the door to 332, the students were maintaining a hushed volume while some of them simply held their breath or nervously tapped their leg. The digital clock above the chalkboard (the university had a strange approach to updating to modern technologies) switched from 9:59 to 10:00 and seemingly in a synchronised motion, the door swung open and all heads turned. 

It was hard for some students to choose what to notice first—the grungy black boots that lead the way in with a slithering step? The tight skinny jeans that were somehow simultaneously the tightest they’d ever seen, yet still looked like they might be too big for the man’s skinny frame? The delicate but long hands, gripping a manila folder with perhaps a bit too much strained force? All of those things could be noted before the eyes even travelled upwards to the man’s upper body, which was just as interesting. Sunglasses perched on his head atop a smooth mess of reddish hair, half of which was gathered in a bun, and his sharp features were set in a stern yet impish expression. 

When he reached the podium, he turned to face the class. “ _Bonjour, tout le monde”_ he lilted with a slight curl of his lips. 

\---

Aziraphale spent the hour at his desk in the TA office suite finishing up his lesson plans for the week. At 9h45 he cleared off his desk and wondered if he should wait there for Crowley to come back after class, or if he should go meet him outside the classroom. Part of him thought that Crowley would probably appreciate seeing a familiar face after his first lecture. On the other hand, Aziraphale didn’t want to seem overbearing or pushy by forcing him to answer his questions immediately. He elected to let Crowley find him when he was ready to go for a coffee, and remained at his desk studying the names of his students. 

The only other person in the office was Anathema, who seemed to be engrossed in an article she was reading on her laptop. She and Aziraphale both looked up when the door opened and Crowley sauntered over to his desk. He flopped his empty folder next to his laptop and let out a big breath. “I need a coffee, _tout de suite_.” 

“Ah, shall we go to the Eternal Cup café? It’s not very far,” Aziraphale offered. 

“That sounds great,” Crowley replied, smiling delicately at Azira. Aziraphale returned the smile and grabbed his wallet before realising that Anathema was still staring in their direction. 

“Oh, Anathema, would you care to join? We’re just going for a coffee before the seminar.” 

Anathema cracked a wide smile, showing off her perfectly straight, white teeth. “I’d love to, but I teach the 11 am class. You two have fun, though.” She beamed at the both of them. “We should definitely get drinks at the end of the week.” 

Aziraphale agreed enthusiastically before he and Crowley left the office and stepped out into the broad sunlight outside Tadfield Hall. 

\---

The Eternal Cup was just across one busy street at the southern edge of campus, and was frequented overwhelmingly by students and professors. The back of the building jutted out over the railroad tracks that cut across the city, and every once in a while a loud rumble would put a stop to the lively conversations. The Eternal Cup was not one of those shops where everyone was on their tablet, phone, or laptop while the only noise was a generic music playlist and the spurt of coffee machines. Most of the clientele that camped out in the shop came expressly to meet up over a delightful cup of any number of warm drinks on offer. There was a perilous stairwell that led to a second level which was more suited to quiet work, and throughout the shop there was an assortment of mismatched furniture—comfortable armchairs in every colour, small wooden tables, large tables with glass surfaces, even the odd rocking chair. There was even a fireplace in one corner, although it was far too warm for it to be of use yet.

On their way from Tadfield Hall, Crowley and Aziraphale chatted about how their living situations were turning out. Azira learned that Crowley had a cat that clearly meant quite a lot to him (he shared no less than _three_ cute stories about the cat), and Crowley learned that Azira had a roommate he didn’t know well at all, named Michael. They were both sweating as they reached the edge of campus and jay walked across the street, Crowley waving at an oncoming car that had to slow down for them. 

The door to the Eternal Cup was heavy and had a jaunty bell attached to it that announced the arrival and departure of customers. Aziraphale had already become a regular in the short time since he’d arrived in town, and opened the door without wincing at the unexpected weight of it. “After you,” he nodded at Crowley, who stepped inside with his hands in his pockets. 

The café was busy, but not overly crowded. There were several empty tables lining the windows in the front, and there was only one barista on duty. Aziraphale took the lead and went up to the till where the barista was standing absentmindedly. “Hello Newton, how are you?”

“Oh, hey there Azira. I’m well, and yourself?” The barista was a bespectacled bloke with unkempt hair and a frayed jumper beneath his Eternal Cup apron. He exchanged pleasantries with Aziraphale while Crowley paced around, looking inside the display windows. Aziraphale had already ordered his usual (café au lait and ham and cheese croissant) when Newton the barista said, “And for you, sir?”

Crowley was taken aback by the formal address and had clearly not made up his mind yet. “I really do recommend their croissant sandwiches, if you’re feeling peckish,” offered Aziraphale. 

“Erm… yeah, alright,” said Crowley, long fingers tapping on his chin. “Could I have the spinach feta croissant and a black coffee, please?” 

They paid and found a table while Newton warmed up their sandwiches and fixed the drinks. Once they were settled, all conversation was put on hold whilst Aziraphale sighed happily and bit into his croissant with such relish, Crowley had to take several gulps of coffee to stop himself from gawking.

After both of them had mostly finished eating and were sipping on their drinks, Aziraphale turned the topic of conversation to classes. “So,” he said, dabbing at the side of his mouth with a napkin, “how did the first teaching session go?” Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Crowley would want to share at all, but he seemed relaxed enough to be OK with him asking. Crowley rested his arms on the table before answering, looking thoughtful. 

“Before I walked in there, I was _really_ nervous,” he finally said. “Like I was about to… speak before a court or something. But as soon as I actually started talking, it was like another part of my brain took control, or maybe I just realised it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. It went surprisingly well.” He took another sip of coffee, although he was nearing the end of the cup and it was getting to be just bitter dregs. 

“Oh, I’m so happy to hear that, Crowley! I knew you’d make a wonderful teacher.” The sides of Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled into a warm smile. 

“Don’t speak too soon, there’s time yet to royally fuck it up.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale scoffed, “the first class is the most difficult bit. It’ll be smooth sailing from now on. Besides, you know you can come to me if you ever are feeling overwhelmed.” 

“You’ve taught before then, I take it? It must be a breeze for you,” Crowley said with a hint of a mocking tone. 

“Well… yes, and it does get easier the more you do it. And I’m really here to focus on research and eventually get published, so the teaching is really just a secondary job that I try not to get too caught up with worrying about. Do you want to become a professor after you’ve finished the degree?”

“Ngk,” Crowley spat at the question. Aziraphale’s eyes widened before he realised that the sound was just one of Crowley’s many non-verbal ways of communicating. After a beat, Crowley elaborated. “Don’t really think that far in advance. Just taking it week by week, really.” He looked at Aziraphale, large honey-coloured eyes widening beneath his expressive eyebrows. “ _You_ are going to be a professor,” Crowley stated matter-of-factly. 

Aziraphale had to take a moment before registering what he’d said, getting a little lost in the colour of his eyes, which he hadn’t noticed before. “That is the grand plan, yes. I’ve always fancied being _Professor_ Fell,” he hummed. 

“Like your father,” Crowley said, inclining his head understandingly. 

“Yes, well he – wait, did I tell you about my father?”

Crowley’s eyes widened, now more in shock than anything else, and he sputtered frantically. “Wh – no, I – you. I think—” He was clearly at a loss. “You might’ve mentioned it,” he finally said unconvincingly. 

Aziraphale knew he had mentioned nothing of the sort, but he decided not to press the matter. His father, both a lawyer and a professor of law, hardly ever entered into conversations he had, if Aziraphale could help it. Perhaps it was just a lucky guess, or Crowley was confusing him with another grad student he’d talked to. “Yes, well. I can’t say I’m exactly following in my father’s footsteps. He is enraged that I’m studying _literature_ rather than something he deems more useful. But I guess I still won’t be the first Professor Fell in academia…” 

“Of course, I wasn’t—”

“Think nothing of it, dear. I’d love to talk more, but I think perhaps we ought to get going. We’ve only got a quarter of an hour before seminar,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to the clock in the café. 

“You’re joking!?” Crowley hurriedly clambered out of his seat and squeezed out of the corner where his chair was wedged. “Fuck, I’m not ready.” He ran fingers through his hair. “Sorry, er, for language.”

“No worries,” Aziraphale chuckled. “We’ve got plenty of time to get back. Shall we?” He got up soundly from his chair and calmly began collecting the dishes. Crowley grunted in agreement and helped him gather the plates and napkins, accidentally brushing one of Aziraphale’s hands in the process. Neither of them acknowledged the touch, quickly returning the dishes and waving to Newton before heading out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't help peppering french in now and then, just filler words really. but if i ever put a whole sentence, i'll be sure to include the translation ;)  
> hoping to maintain at least a one-chapter-a-week posting schedule, but it might get tricky in the next few weeks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didn't get to proofread this really, so apologies for errors   
> enjoy!

After the initial period of adjustment to busy teaching and coursework schedules, Crowley started feeling a bit more at ease in the classroom as both a student and as a TA. The weeks flew by in that very particular way that felt at once like time was passing too quickly, as well as not fast enough. The weeks were like days, yet each day seemed like an entire week on its own. 

He had fallen into a routine that generally suited his productivity—he got most of his reading done on the weekends or on the afternoons when there was no seminar. Late evenings were for relaxing—he’d watch a few episodes of _Cheers,_ Lucifer coiled at his side, and indulge in something sinfully sweet before slithering into bed at an early hour. Sometimes, if he got to bed early enough, he even managed to make it to campus well before his 10am class with enough time to have a coffee at Eternal Cup with Azira. It was always brief, since Azira had to teach at 9, but Anathema usually was there as well and kept Crowley company until his class. Besides, coffee shops were an excellent atmosphere for agonising over writing assignments, of which he had more than enough. 

Academically, things were going smoothly enough. Crowley had always had exceedingly good marks in undergrad, especially when it came to written assignments, and he supposed he should’ve given himself more credit. He was not struggling nearly as much as he’d feared he would before starting.

Teaching was also going surprisingly well. Within just a few weeks, Crowley had already grown rather fond of his students and was secretly pleased to watch them slowly make progress. Although he would never let on, he of course had favourites. When no one else was in the TA offices, sometimes he, Azira, and Anathema would trade funny stories about their most entertaining pupils. 

One week about a quarter through the term, Crowley found a note stuck to the podium in room 332 when he went in to teach. He was a couple minutes early because he wanted to set up a video to show the class, but he hadn’t seen Aziraphale leaving. He doubted it was a note from Azira (they saw each other practically every day and had each other’s mobile numbers), but as he got closer he recognised the handwriting—loopy but very neat and abiding by all the rules of cursive that hardly anyone follows anymore. The note read:

_Crowley - won’t be in the office today after class - going to a lecture in the history department. See you in seminar --- signed Azira_

_Ps. the awful smell in the room is 100% a student’s fault - they brought fish and chips to a 9am lecture!_

Crowley wrinkled his nose—he had noticed a slightly off odour upon entering the empty classroom. He smiled at Azira’s politeness but also cheekiness—that he would write a _note_ to let Crowley know that it wasn’t _his_ fault the room smelled so terrible. 

Soon Crowley was finding a note from Aziraphale in room 332 almost every day. Sometimes the note actually communicated information—where Crowley should meet him after class, the reading they were discussing later in seminar (in case Crowley had forgotten to do it and needed a reminder), what the soup special at Eternal Cup was that day. But more often than not, Aziraphale’s notes were pure nonsense—a trivial mistake made by a student that he found particularly funny, a random phrase in French, a list of things he would like to eat, or a little motivational message to encourage Crowley on especially busy days. One time all he had written was _“CROISSANT AU BEURRE,”_ and Crowley just had to assume that Azira was particularly put out by the poor quality of croissants in town and was wishing he could pop over to France for a proper one. The notes never failed to make Crowley smile a little, and sometimes he wished their classes were reversed so that he could leave his own notes. He kept every single one, regardless of how silly it was.

One day, Aziraphale asked Crowley if he could cover his office hours while he had a meeting with Gabriel (Professor Angelot was notoriously difficult to obtain a one-on-one meeting with, so the first opening he had, Azira took). It was no problem for Crowley to cover for him—he had his office hours just before Azira’s. Usually students only came to office hours right before a big exam, although there were occasional drop-ins from overly-anxious perfectionists who were worried about a minuscule mistake on their homework exercises. Crowley spent most of the hour doing his own reading quietly. 

Then a group of students squeezed into the office suite; by the looks of it, they were arguing over who would get to go first. Crowley recognised two of them from his 10 am section—Pepper and Adam—but the other two boys he hadn’t seen before. 

“Professor Crowley!” said Adam. Crowley grinned—it was always funny to him when undergraduates were overly formal, to the point of addressing him as a position he certainly wasn’t qualified for. 

“Hi Adam, hi Pepper. Did you two miss my office hours?” 

Pepper piped up when Adam seemed at a loss. “No, we’re just here with our friends Brian and Wensley. They’re in Professor Fell’s section and were too scared to come to office hours alone,” she teased. 

“No—” protested the bespectacled boy, but he was immediately cut off.

“Are too, you literally said you wouldn’t come in here without me and Adam,” Pepper said under her breath. Crowley snickered—it seemed his devil-may-care attitude and austere composure was paying off, even for students who weren’t in class with him. (It absolutely did not occur to him that it was _Aziraphale_ that the students were terrified of approaching, not him. He was very cocky in his ability to pull off the stern, aloof professor vibe.) 

“Well, do you all have a collective question to ask, or are you going to fight over who gets to go first,” Crowley said, arms crossed. 

Pepper was clearly the designated speaker of the group. “We have a collective question,” she stated, eyeing Crowley with an unwavering gaze. He returned it, raising his eyebrows as he waited for her to go on. “The four of us were wondering if it would be possible to collaborate on the cultural project. We know we’re in different sections, but it’s the same course with the same curriculum, so we thought it shouldn’t be a problem for us to work together.” Pepper crossed her arms and continued looking at Crowley expectantly, as if he was meant to immediately agree to her request. 

Crowley was slightly taken aback by her self-confidence. He never had that as a student—Hell, he still didn’t have it in the graduate seminars. “Well… have you asked Mr. Fell about this idea?” 

“No, we came to you first.” 

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Why me first?” 

Adam rolled his eyes. “That’s obvious, he clearly is way stricter about these things. We thought if we could convince you first, he’d agree to it without us having to go talk to him about it.” Brian and Wensley nodded enthusiastically at Adam’s explanation. Crowley was not quite as thrilled by it. This put a considerable damper on his confidence that he was the most foreboding of the first-year grad TAs. 

He decided not to question their perception of him, since that wouldn’t be very cool of him to do. “Well, I can’t decide for Mr. Fell, and we both have to be in agreement, so how about the two of you,” he gestured at Brian and Wensley, “write to Fell explaining why you want to do a joint project, and then I can discuss it with him.” 

“But you’ll convince him, right? I mean you two must be close, he leaves you notes all the time,” said Brian. 

Crowley scowled. He didn’t think anyone would have picked up on that.

“Yeah, and you’ve always got a big stupid grin on your face when you read them,” added Adam, in a tone that was akin to mockery. A blush joined Crowley’s scowl, and he made a mental note to only read Aziraphale’s notes when no one else was in the room. 

“He looks positively giddy whenever he leaves them, too,” Wensley said, apparently with no regard for Crowley’s rapidly degrading composure. “It’s the only time he really seems friendly in class.” 

Since when was Azira the hard-arse? Crowley had come to associate Azira with endless kindness, no matter the situation, and he couldn’t imagine it’d be any different with university students.

Crowley was spared having to answer to this peculiar statement by the arrival of Aziraphale himself, bursting into the office in an enhanced state of glee.

“You’re quite chipper,” Crowley blurted out, before reminding himself that he was meant to maintain coolness and reservedness around his students. 

“Yes, well, I just had the most fruitful discussion with Professor Angelot, I’ve really found some clarity on my proposed dissertation topic and it’s just put me over the moon,” Aziraphale practically swooned. He beamed at Crowley before taking in the four students, turned towards him with their mouths agape. “Oh, how silly of me, of course you’re still covering my office hours. Hello Brian, Wensley,” he nodded curtly, finally turning his attention to them. Azira looked blankly at Adam and Pepper, then looked back at Crowley. 

“Ah, yes,” Crowley’s brain finally managed to kick into action. “It’s good that you’re here, actually, there seems to be something these four students would like to ask of us.” He gestured to the group, giving them the floor. Pepper repeated their request, after introducing herself to Aziraphale in nearly flawless French, and Aziraphale listened intently. When she had finished, Azira’s bright eyes fell on Crowley, and Crowley thought he detected a glint in them. 

“And what have you told them, Crowley?”

“Nothing, really, I was saying that they ought to ask you as well, seeing as it’s both our courses,” Crowley shrugged. 

Aziraphale clasped his hands together. “I for one think it’s a splendid idea. I don’t see why we should discourage collaboration between students, even if they are in different sections. Don’t you agree, Crowley?”

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley managed to say before Azira was speaking again.

“Of course, you might need a few more guidelines,” he said, turning to the students. “Perhaps we could arrange a few meetings throughout the semester with both myself and Mr. Crowley, so that we would know what direction you all were taking and monitor the progress. Does that sound appropriate?”

Pepper and Adam looked very enthusiastic; Brian and Wensley took their cue and also nodded in agreement. 

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale smiled. He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think you’ve rather overstayed the scheduled office hours, so if that’s the only question you have, I think we’d all better go get some lunch.” 

“Thank you, Professor Fell, that was all,” said Pepper. 

“Not a professor yet,” Aziraphale returned automatically, with a playful wiggle of his eyebrows. “How about you set up a group email chain so that we can all communicate more easily, and we will get back to you when the time comes to check in?” 

The students left looking properly pleased with themselves, and Aziraphale suggested sushi for lunch, which Crowley found himself agreeing to even though sushi always seemed to him like an excessively snot-like substance for something you were meant to eat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not all that much happened here, but i wrote it so i posted it... i don't really plan this story, i sort of just write what i feel like, but i have some more exciting stuff brewing for upcoming chapters.  
> please leave a comment if you'd like to!
> 
> thanks for reading :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> although this fic might read like i have nothing planned and i just write whatever i feel like writing on that day (which, to be fair, is often the case), what is revealed about crowley's past in this chapter has actually been planned from pretty early on :P 
> 
> hope you enjoy, thanks for reading! :)
> 
> oh, also i changed the rating to M just because i figured maybe a T rating shouldn't have as much swearing :/ idek, ratings confuse me sometimes

Anathema let out a repressed squeal that made Crowley and Aziraphale jump in their seats. The three of them were hard at work grading the piles of exams from their French 101 courses. It was the evening after a long day, and rather than go to their usual booth at Heavenly Brew for a pint, the grad students had brought their laptops and exams to a small table in the Eternal Cup. Thankfully the coffee shop was open late, because the grading was turning out to take a lot more time than any of them had expected. 

Crowley scowled over the top of his laptop at Anathema, whose hands were covering her mouth as she stared wide-eyed at her screen. “Did you fuck something up?” he asked, not knowing how to read her outburst. Aziraphale hadn’t looked up from the short answer questions he was pouring over.

“No, I was just taking a break to scroll through Facebook and saw that my favourite band of ALL time is playing at the Harmonies From Hell in a few weeks!” Anathema looked between Crowley and Aziraphale with unbridled excitement in her eyes. 

“What’s Harmonies From Hell?” asked Aziraphale, all while crossing out grammar mistakes with a red pen. 

“Music venue downtown,” Crowley provided. “What’s the band?”

Anathema fluttered her hands excitedly. “Oh you would love them, they’re called the Undercover Telescope and the Wicked Bicycles, it’s sort of a fusion of genres but they mainly do really good harmonies over top of eerie symphonic music—” Anathema looked like she had only just gotten started gushing about the band. 

“Symphonic music? That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said absently, hardly realising that he had cut off Anathema’s enthusiastic description. 

Crowley suspected that Aziraphale had only been half-listening. “Did you not hear the words ‘eerie’ and ‘wicked’?” he asked, turning to Azira. 

Aziraphale finally looked up from his incorrectly conjugated verbs. “Well, yes, but it’s just a band, how spooky can it be?” 

“Oh, they’re not actually scary,” Anathema piped up at the chance to talk more, “it’s more just the atmosphere they create. I haven’t been to a live show, but I know they all have really cool costumes on stage, and they use fog machines. You _definitely_ won’t want to miss this.” She was talking mainly to Crowley, who she knew was really into music (almost all their conversations revolved around obscure bands), but it seemed that Aziraphale was taking her words to heart. 

“Well that sounds very exciting! I’d love to try something new, I don’t know much about music venues in town, or modern music at all, really. I know the symphony is doing Dvorák’s _New World Symphony_ , but that isn’t until December.” He said it as if everyone kept up with what the local symphony’s program was. 

Anathema was clicking furiously on her mousepad. “We should all go to this show, I’m going to tell the other grad students about it. It could be a fun outing, we always stay in our university bubble, this’ll be really different and fun.” Crowley raised his eyebrow. He couldn’t imagine some of the other grad students setting foot downton, much less jumping around at a raging concert. “Shoot, tickets don’t go on sale til tomorrow,” Anathema said. 

“We can propose it to the others tomorrow,” Aziraphale replied. Crowley marvelled at the glint in Aziraphale’s eye and how he wiggled a little in his seat, as if in anticipation of telling everyone about this great opportunity. It was difficult for Crowley to get back to work after that. When they finally left Eternal Cup later that night, he still had several sections of the exam left to mark, and his mind was in another realm completely.

\---

The next morning, Crowley was severely sleep-deprived and sauntered around Tadfield Hall with his sunglasses on to hide the dark circles beneath his eyes. He had stayed up until at least 2 in the morning finishing the exams and entering the scores into the stupid online system they were forced to use (it had taken him far too long to figure it out, especially for someone who considered himself tech-savvy). 

Normally Crowley would have collapsed into bed as soon as he’d completed the grading, eager to at least get _some_ of his required beauty sleep. But instead he had put on the latest album released by the Undercover Telescope and the Wicked Bicycles and spent an inordinate amount of time agonising over weather Aziraphale would like their sound or not. Finally he had decided that the band might actually be interesting to Aziraphale—he _was_ a lot more open-minded than Crowley sometimes gave him credit for. 

Before eventually falling into a fitful sleep around 4, Crowley sent a text to a number in his phone that he hadn’t used for months, hoping to wake up to the response he hoped for in the morning. 

Thankfully, Crowley _had_ awoken to an affirmative message, although he was still in a foul mood having gotten a measly five hours of sleep. Getting through his 10am lecture was one thing, but it wasn’t as hard as the thing he was about to do, if all went well. 

He and Aziraphale had been spending a lot of time together outside of class lately. Even though they never went anywhere far from campus or did anything that just good friends wouldn’t do together, Crowley had a distinct feeling that his relationship with Aziraphale was gradually tipping over into more-than-friends territory. Crowley could be mistaken, but the way Aziraphale acted towards him was becoming unmistakably flirtatious, especially in the notes he sometimes left Crowley in room 332. It had only been a couple months, granted, but Crowley figured it had been longer than other people might wait to ask someone out. 

Crowley generally avoided intimate situations with people, because he was always disappointed or ended up hurt by them. His personality and/or his anxiety eventually always became overbearing to the other person, and it just wasn’t worth the hurt. Crowley knew he was difficult to be with, and he figured that he’d rather be alone than force something to work with someone who clearly wasn’t that committed to Crowley and all his baggage. 

But Aziraphale was different. There were many reasons Crowley could think of that would make a relationship with Aziraphale worth the embarrassment of asking him out and the rough patches they would inevitably have—first off, Azira was incredibly attractive. That was a given. Surely no one could deny how lovely that head of blonde curls was when paired with his bright blue eyes and slightly upturned nose. Normally Crowley would never presume that someone as accomplished and well-adjusted would be interested in his own chaotic mess of a life, but he had seen Azira’s glances and once-overs. Not to mention all the times Azira asked him if he was alright, or expressed concern when Crowley told him about a difficult day he’d had. 

The truth was, he’d been thinking about how nice it would be to date Azira for some time now, and he was honestly a little surprised Azira hadn’t asked him out himself. He’d thought he was going to do it a number of times already—after seminar when every single time Crowley looked up, he made eye contact with Aziraphale across the room, who would promptly blush. When Crowley approached the podium to teach, sometimes he would get his hopes up when he saw a note and imagined that it had a romantic message asking him out on it. In the corridor when Crowley and Aziraphale were late walking to monthly departmental meetings and their hands brushed together more than once, when it certainly could have been prevented. Crowley went around with bated breath, always on guard when Aziraphale was around in case they finally talked about potentially dating. But it had been weeks, and the anticipation was nearly killing Crowley. He had to finally take the matter into his own hands, and this oddball concert that Azira had surprisingly expressed interest in was the perfect excuse to get the ball rolling. 

Crowley walked into the TA office suite and was relieved to see that Azira was the only one in there. It was a busy time of the semester, so Aziraphale had been packing (obviously gourmet) lunches rather than going out to eat. He was taking notes with a fountain pen on an old-fashioned pad of paper from a book with faded print, in between careful spoonfuls of soup at his desk. Crowley set his things down with disturbing Azira, taking a moment to appreciate how delicately he turned the pages of the book. 

“Do you still want to go to that concert Anathema was talking about?” Crowley regretted breaking the spell, but it was worth it when Aziraphale looked up at him and his face broke into a smile. 

“Crowley! Yes, I think so. It’d be good to get out of my comfort zone. Are you going?” He looked particularly hopeful. Crowley held onto that as he urged himself to continue the conversation. 

“Well, yes, I was wondering if you might want to go with me. I actually used to work at Harmonies From Hell, and I have two complimentary tickets to the show,” he said, tentatively making eye contact with Aziraphale once he’d finished speaking. 

Azira’s eyes widened in surprise. “You worked at Harmonies From Hell? I didn’t know that!” 

“Er, yes,” Crowley answered, worried that this was the bit that Aziraphale seemed to be focusing on. He hoped that Azira wouldn’t think that he had been hiding something from him—it just hadn’t come up yet in their conversations. “The last couple years I lived downtown and worked at the box office there. I still have a few connections.” 

“Well, I never. I had no _idea_ you did that in between your bachelor’s and your PhD. And here I am, thinking that I knew almost everything about you! Silly of me. Clearly, I talk too much,” Aziraphale was shaking his head in disappointment. 

“Well, I didn’t tell you, so it’s not exactly your fault,” Crowley grumbled. He was annoyed at how off topic this conversation was going, and for some reason he blamed himself. As usual, he was not gifted at speaking eloquently, or steering the conversation where he wanted it to go. He could hardly blame Aziraphale for not knowing what he didn’t tell him. Not that he wanted to share stories about the frankly terrible years he had spent working at Harmonies in Hell with the likes of Hastur and Ligur, to mention just a few of his coworkers. “So, do you want to go with me or not? We could have dinner or drinks beforehand. Anywhere you want to go, my treat.” 

Aziraphale seemed to drop his concern of not knowing enough about Crowley very quickly. The sides of his eyes crinkled as he responded. “That sounds marvelous. I’m looking forward to it! Now I hate to cut you off, but I must prepare for that upcoming presentation in Professor Angelot’s course… I have quite a lot left to do, unfortunately.” 

Crowley had tuned out as soon as he heard Aziraphale’s affirmative answer. He knew this was a busy time of the semester, but having the concert to look forward to now was enough to motivate him to lock himself in the library to finally finish an essay that was due next week. At the beginning of the semester, he never could have fathomed having time for going on dates with the workload he’d have, but now he was sure that a date would actually make him all the more efficient. Sure, he and Aziraphale would have to take it slow since they were both still students. But Azira had said yes to a date, and that’s all that mattered for the time being. He smiled a little and took out the hummus sandwich he’d packed for himself, although he rather regretted it because he actually hated hummus. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i am very excited to make up an imaginary band for anathema to be crazy about. i might even come up with song names 
> 
> leave a comment if you'd like! thanks for reading


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had time to write, so i forced myself to get on with it. hope you enjoy! 
> 
> i realised i'd been writing mainly from crowley's pov (because i heavily identify with him lololol), so here's a whole chapter in azira's pov

Aziraphale was pretty sure that Crowley and Anathema were going to dump him by the wayside if he didn’t start to express interest in some of the things they liked soon. Although he and Crowley had become very close and spent quite a lot of time together, the fact remained that Aziraphale had never seen Crowley’s flat, for example. He knew that Anathema _had_ seen where Crowley lived, several times for that matter, because she and Crowley had a standing date to watch _Game of Thrones_ every week, using Anathema’s HBO account. 

In principal, this didn’t bother Azirphale—he had absolutely no interest in wasting time on television when he should and could be reading—but he was a little peeved that neither Anathema nor Crowley had ever even invited him to their fun evenings. As if they _knew_ that it wasn’t his scene and he would certainly decline. This knowledge made Aziraphale desperately want them to invite him to _something,_ just so he could surprise them by accepting. 

He wasn’t necessarily jealous of Anathema—she clearly had much more in common with Crowley than he did. They listened to the same sort of music (was it metal? Or bebop? Aziraphale really was hopeless), and were always suggesting new bands and songs to check out. They both fostered a dark aesthetic—Crowley almost always wore all black, and the lightest colour Aziraphale had seen Anathema wear was a marine-blue tartan coat. 

Aziraphale had also recently learned that both Anathema and Crowley were fairly sporty. Anathema had played tennis in high school, and Crowley was one of those people who went _running_ to relieve stress. On weekends, they sometimes went on a run together. It didn’t surprise Aziraphale that they had never asked him if he was interested in joining that particular activity—it was rather obvious that he wasn’t in the least bit inclined to _run_. 

Despite the lack of concrete common interests he could find with Anathema and Crowley outside of their studies, the three of them did get on quite well. There were countless afternoons spent in the stacks of the library that inevitably ended up with all three of them suppressing giggles as disgruntled students shot them looks. Even on the busiest weeks, they made time for their weekly drinks at Heavenly Brew. Many of the other grad students no longer could make it, but they were sometimes joined by Newt. They’d gotten to know him pretty well from spending so much time in Eternal Cup when he was on duty. 

They had become such a close-knit group, they even had inside jokes concerning other people in the French department. They read over each others’ papers, practised presentations together, and generally supported each other. So it annoyed Aziraphale that he still couldn’t help but feel a little left out of Anathema’s seemingly closer connection with Crowley. 

Then the concert invitation had arisen, and Aziraphale jumped at the opportunity to bond over something that wasn’t classes or homework. He was elated when Crowley went out of his way to make sure Aziraphale got to go—free tickets! The grad student stipend was enough to live comfortably, but it hardly lent itself to going out frequently. With free tickets, he would feel much better about buying food before the concert. It would be a rare occasion to really forget about work and enjoy himself completely. 

There was still a week to go before the concert, though, and Aziraphale was starting to feel a little apprehensive about it. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The only concerts he’d ever been to were in enormous concert halls, with plush seats and perfect acoustics for orchestral music. Certainly Harmonies From Hell would be a more… _relaxed_ venue. What should he wear? Would it be loud enough that he should bring earplugs? 

He was too embarrassed to ask Anathema or Crowley any questions, so he tried doing a little bit of research online—to no avail. There were no pictures of the inside of the venue, and all he could find about the band was their strange album covers, which were, quite frankly, horrifying. The more time he spent browsing, the more nervous he got that nothing about him would fit in at the concert. So he dropped it and focused instead on his studies. 

\---

The temperature had begun to drop as the seasons changed, and Aziraphale had taken to wearing scarves and hats. It got harder and harder to drag himself out of bed in the mornings, and he drank more hot cocoa than was probably good for him. He subsided on stew and hot chocolate, and somehow he was pretty sure that had already caused him to put on his winter weight. Aziraphale loved the cold months because he could cover up his body with cozy clothing, but simultaneously hated them because he inevitably felt bulkier. 

Furthermore, his flatmate had really begun to bug him. He had found another grad student to share a two-bedroom flat with mainly in order to save money. Aziraphale considered himself fairly easy to live with—he was quiet, kept regular hours, never had guests over, kept the common areas clean. He could put up with a lot, too. Lucky for him, most noises didn’t distract him from reading or writing, and he was secretly a bit of a slob, so a cluttered living space didn’t actually bother him. But Michael had proven to be the worst flatmate he’d ever had.

To begin with, Michael’s schedule was elusive. Aziraphale could have sworn he was a graduate student in some science-y type programme, but he certainly didn’t have a regular schedule to keep to. He was always in the flat when Aziraphale was there, but on many occasions when Aziraphale was tied up on campus, Michael would text him saying that he’d been locked out. Michael was always on the couch either eating or sleeping, and that was always paired with either loud music or TV. He didn’t do any dishes that hadn’t been sitting for at least a week. The kitchen was covered in spilt food remnants and ants if Aziraphale didn’t spend precious time every night tidying up. Huge puffs of weed emitted from Michael’s bedroom door on a daily basis, and sometimes he smoked cigarettes inside as well. Then there was the rather active sex life Michael had, presumably with Tinder dates because Aziraphale had yet to see the same woman twice. 

Before moving in, Aziraphale had been a bit worried about seeming too prim, too focused on studies, no fun. But Michael went so far in the other extreme, that he no longer felt bad about his very reserved lifestyle. Normally he didn’t really care what other people did and he truly did not judge Michael for his habits, but it just got to be a bit much when he was living in such close quarters with him. Aziraphale was desperate for any activity that would take him out of his own flat. 

\---

After a long, grueling week of presentations, extra office hours, and midterm papers, Aziraphale was more than ready for the Undercover Telescopes and the Wicked Bicycles (Wicked Bicycles for short) concert. His excitement at a night not spent working far outweighed his apprehension about not fitting in. 

Surprisingly, a number of other grad students had bought tickets to the concert as well. Mary was coming, even though she had a husband and small child at home. There was also Arthur, Eve, Agnes, and Harriet from their cohort, all of whom were very studious and had their own lives, but clearly were dying for any reprieve from the grind of grad school. Anathema had done a very good job of talking up the band, promising that it would be a night of pure enjoyment for everyone. 

Crowley lived about a ten-minute walk from Aziraphale’s flat, in the direction of the city centre, so it made sense for Aziraphale to meet him outside his apartment building. Crowley emerged in his trademark cool attire—his nearly shoulder-length auburn hair was gathered in a half-ponytail, but he had included a plait on each side of his head. The nails on his left hand were painted with black nail varnish, and Aziraphale was pretty certain he had put on some eyeliner. Other than that, he was wearing his signature black skinny jeans, fashionable boots, and black blazer atop a t-shirt. 

Aziraphale fought not to obviously gaze at his frame from head to toe—unlike Crowley, he was not wearing sunglasses to obscure his eye movements. 

They waited at a bus stop and then rode side by side near the back. Crowley had swung into the window seat, leaving Aziraphale to plop down in the aisle seat. He stared (but tried not to) at Crowley’s hand resting on his thigh, the one that wasn’t painted. His hands were perfectly long, and his skeletal fingers gripped nervously at his trousers. How easy it would be for Aziraphale to place his hand on top and smooth away the tension. 

Before he knew it, Crowley was indicating that they should get off the bus. They had barely talked on the ride, and now they were on a fairly busy street, getting jostled by pedestrians. Neither of them had brought heavy coats, and the wind picked up enough for them both to shiver slightly. 

“Is pizza alright with you, Azira?” Crowley’s nose was getting a little red at the tip, and he had taken off his glasses to look at Aziraphale with those stunning amber eyes. 

“Oh, pizza is always tempting, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. 

A brief smile graced Crowley’s face and he gestured for Aziraphale to follow him. 

Aziraphale hadn’t realised how much of an appetite he’d worked up. When they reached a cosy pizza joint on a side street, he found that he was looking forward to the food as much as he was the concert. 

“I thought we could get a bite here and then maybe get a drink at the concert. The venue’s just round the corner,” Crowley said, looking to Aziraphale for approval. 

Not much time later, they were both working on enormous slices of New-York style pizza, with thick crust and melted cheese sliding off in stringy strands. Crowley had gotten a slice of mushroom-basil with a red-sauce base, and Aziraphale was thoroughly enjoying a white pizza. 

“I used to come here all the time when I worked downtown,” Crowley remarked between mouthfuls of pizza. He didn’t look particularly nostalgic about it, but Aziraphale took the comment as an indication that he could ask Crowley questions about his life before grad school. 

Aziraphale could have listened to him share his woes about working in the box office for hours, but soon the time came to meet up with the rest of the group at Harmonies From Hell. 

The concert itself was a blur of loud noises and sweaty people. As Aziraphale had predicted, he was completely the wrong demographic of concertgoer. The band members themselves were all dressed in Medieval-style clothes with a hint of steampunk, and the crowd had taken inspiration from all manner of eras, as long as it was outrageous and verging on the occult. He even saw one man with a full headpiece that had enormous horns—Aziraphale wondered how he possibly could have made it through security. 

The music would have been pleasant if it hadn’t been loud enough to physically harm his eardrums—not bringing earplugs had been a big mistake. The layers of harmonies of voices and diverse instruments crescendoed in each song, to the point that Aziraphale could feel the vibrations of the bass inside his chest in a most unpleasant manner. 

All around him, people were going crazy. There had been a mosh pit closer to the front, which Aziraphale was glad to be far away from. In their vicinity close to the large speaker on the left side of the stage, there were still far too many people within Aziraphale’s personal space for him to be at all comfortable. 

Several times throughout the night, one of the tall people in the row in front of them careered backwards and bumped into Aziraphale, in turn causing him to knock unceremoniously into Crowley. When this happened, Crowley glanced at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, placed a hand softly on his back, and leaned down to ask if he was alright. If it weren’t for Crowley’s reaction, Aziraphale would have been thoroughly annoyed at the careless people in front of him. As it was, he just readjusted his position and tried to avoid further collisions.

When the encore was over and they joined the massive crowd to exit the venue, the cool night air was a relief. Anathema and the rest of the cohort had driven downtown, which left Crowley and Aziraphale to wait at the bus stop again. 

“So, how’d you like it?” asked Crowley, rubbing his palms together for warmth. 

Aziraphale could tell from Crowley’s impish expression that he had had a lot of fun, and was hopeful that Aziraphale was similarly entertained by the music. 

“It was different—” Aziraphale started. “But I really enjoyed it. The music was lovely, thank you so much for inviting me.” He beamed at Crowley when he was met with a toothy grin. It was worth the slight exaggeration of how much he enjoyed the night to see Crowley so pleased with himself. 

If Aziraphale hadn’t made himself the promise that he would not date while he was working on his PhD, he would’ve asked Crowley if he wanted to come up for a night cap when they got off the bus near his building, and maybe even a snog in front of his annoying flatmate. As it were, he kept his distance and said goodnight and thank you for the umpteenth time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple notes:  
> \- i confess i'm one of the few who has never seen even a bit of game of thrones, but it seemed like something anathema and crowley might enjoy
> 
> \- do not even ask me to clarify anything about that band i made up. i threw words in to describe them, and what resulted was something really strange that i'm not even sure how to imagine
> 
> \- this is not the last you'll see of harmonies from hell
> 
> always looking for distractions on tumblr! or in the comment section!  
> [@disoriented-fan](https://georginabulsara.tumblr.com/)
> 
> as ever, thanks to everyone reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is some rambling   
> enjoy!

Crowley hadn’t meant to begin communicating so frequently with one of his old coworkers at Harmonies From Hell. But Warlock was one of the only people he could stand at the place, and it happened that there were a _lot_ of interesting bands coming to town in the upcoming weeks.

Warlock Dowling was a strange kid who had recently finished high school and was working at Harmonies From Hell while he tried to get his own band off the ground. From what he said in his texts to Crowley, it seemed that he wasn’t having much success yet. 

Initially Crowley had only been texting Warlock to ask for comp tickets to shows—Aziraphale had surprisingly really enjoyed the Wicked Bicycles, so Crowley figured more music-themed dates were definitely in order. Warlock recommended bands and set aside two tickets for any show Crowley thought he and Aziraphale might enjoy. 

Warlock had started texting Crowley about all manner of things, though—how was life in grad school? Did he miss the music scene? Would he come to Warlock’s house show that his band had organised? It annoyed Crowley at first (he hated communicating via text), but it was at least a little endearing that someone seemed to look up to him and care about what he was up to.

What with Crowley’s new experience with teaching, his relationship with Warlock now felt like it was verging on mentorship. The boy had even asked if he could come to campus and get a tour of the university, since he was now considering going to uni as a back-up plan in case his band didn’t work out. 

When Crowley and Aziraphale went to a concert, Warlock was usually working the box office. At this point, he recognised Aziraphale as well and would ask him about his studies, the type of music he liked, his other plans for the week-end. Crowley was always on edge during these conversations, because he felt that at any minute Warlock might say something that would scare Aziraphale off. Not that he didn’t trust that Warlock had good-ish intentions—but he was very conscious of the fact that Aziraphale didn’t necessarily fit in with the whole “scene” at Harmonies From Hell, and he feared that just one comment indicating that could potentially put a spanner in the works for their date nights. 

Crowley was taking it exceedingly slowly with Aziraphale. They hardly ever so much as touched each other, much less kissed or held hands. And Crowley was fine with that. Going to concerts and having meals with Aziraphale was turning out to be enough for now. 

With the upcoming holidays, Crowley was hoping to have a more direct conversation with Aziraphale about their relationship, moving forward. Crowley had hoped that Aziraphale might take the initiative of taking things further, but for the time being he kept his distance and let Aziraphale dictate the degree of their closeness. 

For example, Crowley always held the door for Aziraphale, but refrained from placing his palm at the small of his back to guide him over the threshold. If they touched shoulders or bumped hands during a concert, Crowley made sure that it was no more than what could be expected for two people standing side by side while listening to music. When they were on campus, the physical barrier between them was even more enforced, and Crowley did little more than smile sweetly in Aziraphale’s direction. 

But the relationship _was_ evolving, he told himself, if only very very slowly. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale’s flat yet, mainly because Azira spent as much time as possible outside of it, but on several occasions when the library was too busy, Azira would join him in Crowley’s flat to work (but also gossip and complain). 

Azira was very fond of Lucifer, and he would stroke the cat’s fur while it sat curled on his lap, and tell Crowley all of his flatmate woes. He would bemoan the fact that he couldn’t have a cat as a flatmate instead of Michael, and then would allow himself to vent about it until inevitably he would say something along the lines of, “But I shouldn’t complain. I’m sure I annoy him just as much as he annoys me.” 

Crowley doubted it. 

While Aziraphale was letting out his frustrations on the sofa, Crowley would be seated on one of the chairs, slouched over to rest his elbow on his knee with his chin cupped in his palm. He never cut Azira off or told him that he was being dramatic—he remembered how awful it was to have roommates, and at this stage of life it must be even worse. Crowley nodded and scoffed in the right places, and told Azira that he was welcome at his flat whenever he wanted, although he never expressly invited him to stay over. 

Crowley let Aziraphale pay for his own food most of the time, because otherwise Aziraphale would get a look in his eye that made it hard for Crowley to resist temptation—namely, the temptation to kiss that look clear off his face. That look™ was the same one that Azira got when Crowley complimented his hair, or brought him tea in the office suite, or told him his presentation had gone well. 

Crowley loved that glint in Azira’s eyes, but he also recognised the danger of it while he was trying to keep a close check on his display of affection. At least until they got through the semester and Crowley could feel comfortable making the effort to take it a little further. 

\---

“So, are you going to ask Azira out anytime soon?” Anathema said, her breath forming a misty cloud in the cool morning air. 

Unfortunately, the colder months coincided with the more stressful months, so Crowley and Anathema had been running together every weekend. They didn’t go particularly fast, which meant that conversation was always an option, even though Crowley tended to prefer silent companionship on a run. 

Crowley nearly choked on cold air at her question. He and Anathema never talked about their personal lives—they usually just bitched about coursework. “Why do you say that?” He was panting a bit, as they had just started going up a street with a slight incline. 

Anathema was not out of breath at all yet. “Come on, I’ve seen the way you look at each other. Everyone has.”

Crowley blushed despite the cold air that was cutting into his cheeks. He and Azira weren’t public, but Crowley knew that it must be pretty obvious by now that they were more than platonically involved. He figured it would get out eventually, and Anathema was one person he didn’t mind telling. 

“Well, no one else really knows, but we are actually seeing each other already.”

After a pause: “You are.”

“Yes.” 

For a few moments the only sound was their breathing as they neared the top of the small hill. Finally, Anathema said, clearly puzzled, “Since when?”

“Since we went to that Wicked Bicycles show,” Crowley answered. He was perplexed by her reaction, given the fact that she had asked when he would ask Aziraphale out less than a minute ago. “Why are you so surprised?” He looked over to see that she was frowning. 

“Well, just that… oh, never mind.” 

“No, go on,” said Crowley, pausing to shuck off his pullover as he’d started to feel overheated. 

Anathema jogged in place while she waited for him to catch back up with her. She seemed reluctant to continue talking, but once they had picked up the pace again, she spoke in between more laboured breaths. “I just thought I overheard Azira talking with Newt about being single, or something. I must’ve misheard.” 

“Yeah…” Crowley frowned and glanced at her. “Or maybe you heard that before we started dating...” 

“No… it was last week,” Anathema replied. She didn’t say anything else, and they finished the jog with no more discussion of personal matters, talking instead of the possibility of organising a grad-student party once classes were out of session. 

\---

> Subject: INVITATION - soirée pour fêter la fin du semestre !
> 
> From: Anathema Device
> 
> To: French Grads
> 
> Hey everyone,
> 
> Congrats on (almost) making it to the end of a tough semester! We’ve all been working hard and deserve a well-earned break :)
> 
> If you’re still in town the week exams finish, the first-year students are organising a little soirée. Anthony Crowley is hosting, and it will be pretty informal. Bring guests if you want, and any type of food or drink you’d like. So far on the menu is just lots of cheese and bread, and extraordinary amounts of wine. 
> 
> The address is: 66 Oxford Street, Ap. 7c 
> 
> Hope to see you there! 
> 
> Bisous, 
> 
> Anathema 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm excited about writing the next chapter ;)  
> and i hope i'll be able to do it soon, but it's a busy time   
> thank you everyone who reads/comments/leaves kudos!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> managed to finish writing this chapter before the end of the decade, can i hear a wahoo!
> 
> this chapter is a little longer, and if you're not interested in sexual content, skip the very end. this is the first attempt i've made at writing anything resembling smut, so i'm sorry if it's awkward af. from stories i read, i don't think this is something that merits an e-rating, but let me know if you think otherwise. 
> 
> also apologies for the pov whiplash! this is mostly aziraphale, but as you know i'm not very good at balancing the two povs 
> 
> thank you to everyone reading! happy new year!!!
> 
>  **EDIT:** I added a workskin for the few text messages in this chapter - the messages should be clear with the skin turned on or off, but if there are any issues, please drop me a comment!

Aziraphale woke the morning after exams were over to a blissfully empty flat. His roommate Michael had already left town for the holidays, which had given Aziraphale the opportunity to actually use the living room for civilised activities, such as reading and writing. 

The large response that Anathema’s email invitation had received had made Crowley nervous about hosting so many people in his relatively small flat, so Aziraphale had suggested hosting it himself as soon as he found out Michael would be leaving. This was all well and good at the time, but now Aziraphale realised that in his revelling at having the space to himself, he’d rather trashed it in his own way. 

Every single book he’d checked out of the library for his end-of-term papers had found a home in the living room—on the window sill, stacked on the coffee table, draped on the arm of the sofa. There were books everywhere. Not to mention the collections of drafts as he’d printed out his writing to do edits, the piles of student exams he still had to correct, the myriad mugs with hot cocoa sludged at the bottom. It was an utter mess, and he had less than a day to tidy up before company arrived.

And it wasn’t just any company. Half the French department was coming, and that included Anthony Crowley. Crowley hadn’t seen his flat yet, and there was a good chance he’d never want to come back if he saw what a slob Aziraphale was deep down. He’d seen Crowley’s place—spic and span, despite the furry animal he lived with.

Aziraphale pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, trying to decide where to begin. He figured the priority should be cleaning _everything_ , and once that was done, he could go out to buy food and drink for the evening. 

\---

Crowley didn’t stumble out of bed until past 11 the day after the exam period finished. For a week and a half, he had hardly gotten any sleep at all, between writing end-of-term essays, holding review sessions for his students, and generally stressing out about the upcoming holidays. 

Even though he still had lots of exams to grade, he wouldn’t be able to do that without first regaining a few brain cells with a good night’s rest and a respite from all the work. The grad student soirée would be the perfect distraction to help boost him through the last stretch of the semester. 

Crowley was glad Azira would be hosting everyone—his flat wasn’t exactly what he’d call _welcoming_ —but he was contributing an assortment of quiches to the party that he was happy to provide. 

Food was a tricky topic for Crowley. He didn’t really like it, if he was being honest. He only ate because he had to, and he very rarely got excited about a dish. When he did, a small bite or two was usually enough to satiate him.

Unfortunately, his inability to eat very much food at once always came back to bite him in the form of nauseating hunger pangs when it was least convenient. To prevent bouts of dizziness and general bad humour, it was in his best interest to always be equipped with something to snack on. Hence, for those who knew him, Crowley had the paradoxical reputation of being the person who was always starving but never ate. 

_Consuming_ food was an activity he was indifferent to, but _making_ it was another subject entirely. Crowley loved concocting elaborate foods in his free time, particularly as a way of procrastinating and relieving stress from work. He was even embarrassed to admit that he knew the differences between types of pastry (rough puff, full puff, choux, shortcrust, etc.), thanks primarily to his dedication to the _Great British Bake Off._

Lucky for Crowley, Azira was an _extremely_ enthusiastic supporter of Crowley’s baking and cooking attempts. He graciously accepted everything that Crowley made for him, and sometimes would even do Crowley the pleasure of eating it in front of him. 

Crowley couldn’t help but stare at the way Azira’s lips enveloped a _macaron_ , or delicately encased a spoonful of homemade sticky toffee pudding (Azira had quite a sweet tooth, Crowley had realised). It felt a bit like watching something very private and personal take place, and Crowley was always glad that Azira usually had his eyes closed in bliss when he was enjoying food, and couldn’t see how hungrily Crowley watched him. 

Crowley tried to shake the image out of his head as he gathered ingredients for quiche. He would see Azira soon enough, and be able to observe first-hand his sensual eating habits.

Just as he was washing the mushrooms, a message came in on his phone. 

**Aziraphale:** Getting some wine for tonight, do you think Châteauneuf-du-Pape is universally liked?  
  
**Crowley:** can’t go wrong with french wine for this group - sounds lovely xx  
  
**Crowley:** speaking of which, i’m making two different quiches to bring :P  
  
**Aziraphale:** oh! Lovely, what kind?  
  
**Crowley:** it’s a surprise, you’ll see ;)  
  


Crowley smiled to himself as he went about chopping the mushrooms and peppers. Tonight was going to be good fun, even if he’d have to share Azira with the rest of the French department for most of the evening. 

\---

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was fretting, something he was wont to do when he felt out of his element. He’d cleaned an organised the entire flat before going out to the shops, where he had spent an inordinate amount of time overthinking the _apéro_ spread.

Returning back home with several bottles of wine, five types of cheese, an impressive selection of meats, and bread for days, Aziraphale had immediately had second thoughts regarding his living room layout. Presently it comprised of a comfortable armchair facing a large sofa, with a coffee table between them. But now he was wondering if he ought to move the armchair to be closer to the sofa, along the bookshelf, and arrange his kitchen chairs around the coffee table to allow for more sitting space. Or would people mingle while standing? Perhaps all the chairs would get in the way, and people would want to sit informally on the floor. 

The invitation was for 20h, which meant people who arrived on time could be there within two hours. In a frenzy, Aziraphale shoved the armchair towards the bookshelf, but kept the rest of the room open. Noticing a musky scent when he’d walked in, he lit pine-scented candles all about the flat. Finally, he arranged the food he’d bought on the table.

Once he’d painstakingly assigned separate knives for each cheese and sliced the baguettes into perfect rounds, Aziraphale looked at his watch and saw that it was only 18h27. He still had plenty of time before anyone arrived. 

With a sigh, he retrieved his copy of _Les Misérables_ from his bedroom and settled on the sofa. Once he was engrossed in the book, time passed very quickly indeed. 

Two hours later, a sharp knock at the door pulled Aziraphale out of the dismal streets of Paris and back into his uncharacteristically tidy living room. 

He greeted Anathema, and Newt who she had invited since he disliked the students in his computer science programme and had no other social opportunities to speak of. They brought mulled wine and an apple strudel, as well as a bluetooth speaker since Azira didn’t possess any equipment for amplifying music. 

By the time Aziraphale had gotten them each a glass of wine, three other grad students had come in and the flat was already full with the lively hubbub of people who were about to be on vacation. 

Aziraphale found that he could relax, seeing that everyone was clearly having fun. Anathema had put on a calm, mysterious-sounding playlist, and people had brought food so there was no concern of running out. 

Then there was another rap at the door. Arthur, who was closest, opened it to reveal the next arrival. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat as he saw him in the doorway from across the room. 

A sleek figure, in black trousers and a dark green turtleneck covered with a woolen coat, red hair down in soft waves above his shoulders. He was wearing his trademark sunglasses, but had added an unusual necklace—it looked like a string of multi-colour lights. A lopsided grin showcased his slightly jagged teeth, and he held a dish in each hand. 

After taking this image in carefully, Aziraphale weaved his way across the room to assist. 

“Hiya Azira, how’s it going,” Crowley said, leaning in almost as though he were going to give the French greeting of a kiss on each cheek, but thought better of it due to his occupied hands. 

“Yes, it’s going,” Aziraphale returned, making a motion to take one of the quiches.

“Finally seeing your flat!” Crowley beamed, clapping Aziraphale on the back now that he had a hand free. 

“Yes, allow me to show you around.” Aziraphale led him to the kitchen, passing by Anathema who gave Crowley a big bear hug, saying something to him that Aziraphale couldn’t catch. 

“These quiches might need warming up, actually,” Crowley said once they reached the kitchen. “I took them out of the oven a good while ago.”

“Mmm, what have we here,” Aziraphale wondered, peeking under the foil. He hadn’t eaten anything yet, subconsciously holding out for Crowley’s spectacular cooking. 

“You’ll love them. I made a mushroom one, and a sun-dried tomato, red pepper one.” Crowley eyed Aziraphale as he couldn’t help licking his lips in anticipation. 

“I’ll just pop these in the oven to reheat them, then.” Aziraphale preheat the oven and placed the quiches inside. “Can I get you a drink in the meantime?” 

\---

Several glasses of wine and a great deal of dairy products later, the majority of the group was seated around the coffee table in the living room. Crowley was cross-legged on the carpet, nursing his third glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Aziraphale was trying not to stare down at him too often from his perch on the arm of the sofa, which was occupied by Scarlett, Anathema, Agnes, and Harriet. 

Newt, who was the only one there with no connection to French whatsoever, was getting an earful about the department. Specifically, Anathema was explaining the department-wide theory held by grad students that theorized that Professor Angelot and Professor BZL were _definitely_ having an affair. 

“They took a sabbatical at the same time last year, and I heard from Madame Tracy that they stayed in the same apartment in Paris,” Eve added. 

“Maybe they were working together on a research project?” said Newt in a feeble attempt to provide an alternate viewpoint. 

“ _No_ ,” came the chorused response of the other grad students. 

“Their fields of research don’t overlap at all,” Anathema explained to a stunned Newt. “However, just because they spend lots of time together doesn’t mean they’re more than friends,” Anathema pointed out, ever the devil’s advocate in a debate. This statement was accompanied by a pointed stare in Crowley’s direction, but Crowley didn’t seem to notice. He was swirling the contents of his wine glass and pouting ever so slightly. 

“More wine, anyone?” Azira said, although he was looking only at Crowley as he leaned forward to grab the bottle. He stopped short as Crowley lifted his eyes and met Aziraphale’s gaze, arm frozen mid-reach. 

“I’d go for a top-up,” came Eve’s voice, which Aziraphale registered only peripherally. 

_This party is a little too well-attended_ , Aziraphale thought as he tore himself away from the amber irises, which Aziraphale could swear were eyeing him conspiratorially. 

\---

The quiche dishes were both empty, with only little crumbs of shortcrust pastry remaining. The Brie was gone, as was the Comté and slices of salami. There were more empty wine bottles than Aziraphale could care to count in his current state of tipsiness. 

Almost everyone had left, after drunken well-wishes for the holidays and one group picture. Anathema and Newt had stayed to help tidy up the kitchen a little, but now they were both bundling up. Aziraphale felt a fuzzy happiness as he watched them wind scarves around their necks and wriggle their fingers into gloves. 

“Thank you so much for the strudel,” he crooned. “Are you sure you don’t want to take the last two pieces?”

Anathema shook her head. “No, you and Crowley enjoy them.” She smiled in the direction of the kitchen, where Crowley was washing glasses even though Aziraphale had told him not to. “I will have to take my speaker though, if you don’t mind,” Anathema said as she tucked it under her arm and turned off the music. “Can’t go a whole month without that.” 

“Could you share that playlist with me, dear.” Aziraphale had a feeling that listening to it might remind him of the contedness he felt at that moment. 

“‘Course. We’ll be going now.” Anathema wrapped Aziraphale in a warm hug. “Have a restful break, and see you in the new year.” Aziraphale hugged her back, then shook Newt’s hand and thanked him for coming along. Anathema called out to Crowley, who did not emerge from the kitchen. “See you in a couple days, Crowley! Don’t forget that you’re my ride to the train station!”

“Yup!” came his response. 

Aziraphale closed the door behind Anathema and Newt after forcing them to at least take one of the leftover baguettes (they go stale so quickly, it would have gone to waste).

The water in the kitchen sink had shut off. Aziraphale turned around and got an eyeful of Crowley as he ambled into the living room to grab more empty glasses and plates. 

Before he realised that his legs had moved, Aziraphale was placing a hand over Crowley’s arm to stop him from picking anything up. “Please, don’t worry about cleaning up, dear.” 

“But I want to help,” Crowley said, staring daggers into Aziraphale’s eyes. “And to stay a little longer.” 

“Well if you want to stay longer, you can help by just sitting down for a moment.” Aziraphale motioned to the couch, which Crowley tumbled onto with little hesitation. Aziraphale went to join him, and watched as Crowley made an effort to tuck his gangly limbs closer to him, making room for Azira on one end. 

For a moment they sat in silence, Aziraphale trying to force some sobriety into his addled brain. He wasn’t inebriated, but he hadn’t had this much to drink in a long time, and he could sense its loosening effect. 

“This was a nice… do,” Crowley said, followed by a hiccough. 

“Yes, well thank you for providing the quiche. Very thoughtful. Very… exquisite. _Délicieux_.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, as if he was surprised by his own high praise of the dish, and the fact that he was bringing out the French. 

“The _fromage..._ all the cheeses were so good. Reminded me of France.”

“There’s an expensive shop in town that imports them. They really are French.” 

“Mmm. _Formidable_.” 

Aziraphale leaned forward to scoop up a little of the remaining goat cheese on a piece of bread, offering another piece to Crowley. 

“D’you have a favourite—” Crowley started. 

“Do you really think Professor Angelot and—” Aziraphale said at exactly the same time before they both abruptly stopped. 

“You go first,” Crowley nodded. 

“No you,” returned Aziraphale, mouth full with the exquisite bite of cheese and baguette. 

“I was just gonna ask if you have a favourite cheese.” Crowley shrugged, reaching for a bit of Camembert to put on his slice of bread. 

Aziraphale let out a contented sigh. “Oh… it’s so difficult to say. Perhaps Roquefort? It has such a bold flavour. But I also love any cheese made from goat milk.” He stared absent-mindedly past Crowley’s head, thinking of wine and cheese pairings. 

“Roquefort is made with sheep milk,” stated Crowley sagely. 

“Baaa,” bleated Aziraphale, feeling no embarrassment thanks to his intoxicated state. 

“What were you gonna say?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale screwed up his eyes in concentration. “I know—I was going to ask your opinion on the Gabriel-BZL conspiracy theory. Do you think they’re secretly together?” 

“Ah. We’re gossiping now, are we? That doesn’t strike me as your style,” Crowley said with a sly smile and an impish raise of the eyebrow. “But to answer your question, no. I don’t really think they’re a couple… I haven’t seen enough evidence to prove it. You?”

“Mmm, dunno. Don’t really care.” Aziraphale took a moment to sweep his eyes over Crowley’s face, which he could now see was smattered with freckles. “Do you think any of the professors here have time for a personal life? It seems so difficult to balance everything.”

“Haven’t given it that much thought, to be honest. Surely they all have very rich personal lives. If you’re really interested, we could look them up on Facebook!” Crowley’s chest rose rapidly with another hiccough, or maybe it was a swift chuckle. 

Aziraphale noticed that he had been inching towards the redhead on the sofa throughout the conversation. Close enough to see a little smudge of cheese on the side of his mouth.

“You’ve got… some Camembert. Next to your mouth.” Crowley’s eyes whipped up to meet Aziraphale’s, but his hand was very slow in creeping up to his face. “I’ll get it,” said Aziraphale. “If that’s OK.” 

When Crowley gave a minute nod, Aziraphale reached out and thumbed the offending streak of creamy cheese off Crowley’s cheek, which was dangerously close to his mouth. After a moment of hesitation, Aziraphale brought his thumb to his own mouth and sucked, tasting the rich, milky flavour of the Camembert. 

His thumb was wet with his own saliva, but he brought his hand back to Crowley’s cheek. The amber eyes still locked with his, but the eyelids looked heavier, starting to draw the eyes down to look at his mouth. Now they were both leaning towards the other, and Crowley’s long fingers had wrapped part way around Aziraphale’s arm, holding it in place so that Azira’s hand remained at Crowley’s cheek. 

After several agonising moments, Aziraphale brought his lips to the spot where he had removed the smear of Camembert. Sure enough, he could still taste it on Crowley’s skin, which was soft and wonderfully warm. Aziraphale let his tongue dart out to clean his skin of all remnants of French cheese. 

Crowley tilted his head and shifted so that Aziraphale couldn’t help but touch his lips to Crowley’s. It felt like a relief, even though Aziraphale knew that he shouldn’t be doing this, especially when he was so far gone. Crowley’s lips reacted perfectly, moving against Aziraphale’s in a slow and hungry motion. Aziraphale ran his tongue along Crowley’s bottom lip, and soon Crowley was sucking Aziraphale’s tongue into his mouth.

Aziraphale let his hand wander into Crowley’s fragrant, wavy hair, fingers combing through the soft locks. Crowley whimpered into Aziraphale’s mouth and they broke away for a second, only to take a couple deep breaths. 

Crowley tilted his head the other way and kissed Aziraphale firmly again, this time bringing his other hand to the base of Azira’s head. Gently, Aziraphale started leaning more into Crowley, pushing them both down towards a horizontal position on the sofa. Crowley propped himself on one elbow, the hand of the other arm inching into Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale couldn’t help but let out a strangled moan. 

When they broke apart again, Aziraphale panted, “I don’t know if this is a good idea.” But his hands were already reaching for Crowley’s snakehead belt buckle, and Crowley had been reduced to grunts and pleading whimpers. Azira looked up and made eye contact with Crowley for approval before going any further. He kissed his way down to Crowley's waistband, lifting up the turtleneck to reveal a flash of pale skin. 

Aziraphale got Crowley’s trousers and pants down far enough to start licking and sucking at his erection, while his hands clasped to Crowley’s narrow hips. 

“Yessss,” groaned Crowley, head thrown back on the cushion. Aziraphale continued his ministrations between Crowley’s legs until the redhead let out a muffled cry and a slender hand insistently dragged Aziraphale back up to his mouth. 

Aziraphale exalted in the feeling of Crowley’s mouth against his, while the man’s hand found its way down his pants and started stroking steadily. It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to come, gasping as Crowley kissed along his jawline and down towards his Adam’s apple.

They cleaned themselves up, and too tired to have any sort of discussion, Azira simply led Crowley to his bed where they both collapsed into a profound and tranquil sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologise for the weird cheese content....
> 
> not sure how many more chapters of this there will be, but i am considering making it a series because i eventually want to write them going to france XD but for now we have to deal with the aftermath of this chapter agghh
> 
> last note-- i don't know how to do footnotes, but apéro is just the pretentious french word for happy hour


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there had to be some angst at some point...  
> i originally was going to end this story here and then pick the story up with a new one in the series i've created. but instead i think i will keep going with this story (it will go through the end of their academic year, and then i will add other stories after that to the series) - wouldn't want to end on an angsty note!   
> hope you enjoy!

Crowley jerked awake in a cold sweat, eyes blurrily looking around at his unfamiliar surroundings. The turtleneck he was still wearing felt like it was suffocating him, and it didn’t help matters that his body was entwined with a complicated mess of sheets and what felt like a heavy quilt. 

Suddenly a loud, jarring tone accompanied by aggressive vibration sounds interrupted the peaceful silence in the room. 

_“I’m in LOVE with my Car - - - Gotta feel for ma automobile,”_ crooned the raspy voice of Roger Meddows Taylor. 

Slowly Crowley came to enough awareness to reach over to the bedside table and shut off his alarm (“I’m in Love With My Car” had once been his favourite Queen song, but now it ranked as one of the lowest). With an indignant grunt, he realised that there was no bedside table, and that his mobile was sounding from the pile that was his trousers, bunched on the floor next to the bed. Which was higher off the ground than his bed, causing him to nearly topple to the ground when he flailed his arms about in search of the phone. Finally, after considerable difficulty, he jabbed his thumb to the screen to shut the god-awful song up. 

With the disruptive racket taken care of, Crowley could now let his eyes wander around the room and adjust to being awake. Next to a window adorned with pale blue curtains that touched the ground stood a tall shelf crammed with books. From the look of them, many appeared to be rather ancient. As he skimmed one of the titles that was written in large enough type to be read from the bed, Crowley very suddenly found his memory of the night before returning in small but clear increments. It was as if his brain had just connected to the WiFi and was loading all the tabs it had open, one by one, and not in the correct order. 

_Azira’s hand carding through his hair._

_Azira’s lips taking in a bite of quiche and then complimenting Crowley on his culinary skills._

_A sturdy hand (Azira’s, who else’s) gripping his wrist to stop him from taking glasses into the kitchen for washing up._

_Pale blue eyes lingering on his right before Azira undid Crowley’s belt buckle…_

_The unique taste of Azira’s skin and lips, mingled with red wine and milky cheese._

Basking in the memories, Crowley felt very warm and fuzzy inside, and a smile crept across his face (incredibly rare for it being so early in the morning). Just as he hoisted himself up on his elbow to turn to the other side of the bed, a figure appeared in the doorway. 

Rather than splayed comfortably beside him on the mattress, Azira stood at the entrance of the bedroom. He was holding a steaming mug, and by the looks of it, he had already showered and dressed for the day. His hair was even more curled when it was damp, and he looked incredibly warm in a baggy, hand-knit jumper. 

Crowley was too caught up admiring his form to notice that Azira’s brow was furrowed in concern, or unease. He almost hummed in contentedness as he watched Aziraphale’s sturdy fingers circle slowly around the curve of his cup. It was only when Azira brought the mug to his puckered lips to blow on the hot liquid that Crowley took note of the pained expression on his face. 

“What’s wrong, Azira?” Crowley froze in what would become a very uncomfortable position, still propping his torso up with an elbow. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale walked slowly around to the empty side of the bed, carefully placing his mug on the little table at the bedside. “I wish to apologise for last night, and I hope that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” He looked at Crowley with pleading eyes before continuing. “I took advantage of you when we had both had too much to drink, and it was wrong of me. I hope this doesn’t–”

Crowley cut him off. “I didn’t have too much to drink! I feel fine!” In an attempt to demonstrate, he sat all the way up in the bed, which was made rather difficult by the tangle of sheets and blankets. Azira just eyed him with a stern look. 

“Why don’t you use my shower to freshen up, then be on your way. I’m sure you’re no further ahead on exam marking than I am, and just as eager to start the break.” Azira made to help Crowley disentangle himself from the sheets, tenderly pulling them back with special care not to graze any part of Crowley’s body in the process. 

“But–”

“Like I was saying, I sincerely hope my unfortunate slip-up yesterday evening doesn’t damage our friendship. I would hate to lose that.” Azira was no longer making any sort of eye contact with Crowley, and seemed set on getting him out of the bed as soon as possible. 

Crowley stared incredulously. His hands clutched at the soft bedding, fingers unable to relinquish their grip. His mind was starting to process some of the words Aziraphale had been throwing about. Slip-up? Unfortunate? _Friendship?_

“What are you _talking_ about? That wasn’t a slip-up, I’d been hoping something like that would happen for _months_ now!” Crowley managed to yank the quilt out of Aziraphale’s hands without much difficulty. “You didn’t take advantage of me! We’re together, for crying out loud.” Crowley did his best not to gesticulate too wildly as he talked, but he couldn’t help the stammering and sputtering in between phrases. 

Azira was still standing at the side of the bed, blue eyes fixed wistfully on Crowley’s. “That doesn’t make it right,” he said, shaking his head slightly. 

Crowley couldn’t help but gape back at him, at a complete loss for words. Then, some sort of realisation dawned on Azira’s face. 

“Wait… Crowley, what do you mean by ‘we’re together’?” He looked so perplexed, Crowley desperately scrambled to think of what other possible meaning Aziraphale could have taken from that phrase before responding. 

“Wh… y… tha… I– I mean I asked you out and you said yes? And we’ve been together ever since?”

“What? When?”

Crowley restrained himself from swearing. “Are you daft? When I asked you to that concert, the first one we went to together! What are you playing at here? What did you think we’ve been doing all this time?!”

“Oh dear,” lamented Aziraphale. “I’m afraid we’ve been operating under very different assumptions.” 

Crowley felt the sensation of something heavy, like a lead balloon, dropping in his stomach. “But– then– so now what happened last night is my fault? I was the one who took advantage of you!?”

“No, I would never accuse you of that, my dear. You were clearly operating under different assumptions than I was.”

“Well, why…– you didn’t think to ask me what I thought I was doing? Why didn’t you stop me, tell me you didn’t want to?” Crowley had managed to stumble out of the bed, and now stood shakily across it from Azira. 

“I never saidI didn’t _want_ to, and I don’t necessarily regret it. But it’s important for you to understand that I can’t be in a long-term relationship right now. I don’t want to lead you on.”

“Why can’t you be in a relationship?” Crowley asked, willing Azira to explain very clearly because Crowleyhad been under the impression that they _were_ in a relationship, and clearly somewhere along the line he had misinterpreted Azira, and vice versa. 

Azira carried on explaining calmly, far more composed than Crowley. “I would think it was rather obvious, Crowley. I’m very dedicated to my PhD and the dissertation I will soon start writing, and I just don’t think there’s enough time to devote to both completing the degree successfully, _and_ developing a caring romantic relationship with someone.”

“You’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?” Crowley spat, not able to help himself. 

“Now what do you mean by that, Crowley.”

“You’ve been going to all those concerts I’ve invited you to. That’s a waste of time if I ever saw one. You can’t claim that you have time for music but not for building a healthy relationship.” 

Azira looked like he was slowly starting to lose composure. “I just thought you were lonely and wanted a friend to accompany you to something that was important to you! To be frank, I don’t even _like_ the sort of music you drag me to, anyway!”

“You _dooo,_ ” Crowley sneered in a desperate attempt to salvage the conversation. 

“No,” Aziraphale said adamantly. “I merely thought I was doing the right thing by making sure you wouldn’t have to go all alone. Obviously, you got the wrong idea.” 

“How can someone as clever as you be so stupid?!? I would’ve asked Anathema if I wanted to bring a platonic friend with me. I asked you because I thought you were interested in me.”

“Really, Crowley. How was I to know that if you never said as much.” It was less of a question, and more of a harrumphed fact. 

“Well,” spluttered Crowley, “what do you think a romantic relationship is, if not what we’ve been doing for practically the entire semester?! We help each other! Complain to each other! Reassure each other! Spend time together, Hell, even leave little romantic notes for each other.” By this point, Crowley was using his entire wingspan to emphasise his points. “The only thing we were missing out of a romantic relationship was the intimate, physical side!” 

Azira was silent throughout Crowley’s gesticulated tirade. He crossed his arms and stared at the dishevelled bed between them. Finally, he spoke in a low but firm voice. “That doesn’t change my position. I cannot deal with this while I’m in the midst of my studies. My dissertation and my teaching must come first. I hope you understand.” 

Crowley stood facing Azira, chest heaving, as he tried to find something else to say that would make the terrible feeling in his stomach go away. But he was at a loss for words. Finally, he gave in and reached down for his trousers. As he shoved his legs into them and hurriedly pulled them over his boxers, he muttered something about having to go feed Lucifer, even though he and Azira both knew that cats required very little maintenance, and one night away was nothing to be worried about. 

Azira still hadn’t said anything else, so Crowley grabbed his coat and shoes and stalked out the door. He didn’t look back, but as he wrenched the door open, he called, “Have a nice holiday,” in a monotonous drone before letting the door slam behind him. 

\---

The second the door slammed, Aziraphale’s body unfroze from its position by the bedside and he drew the curtain to look out onto the street. Within seconds, the thin and dark figure of Crowley was storming down the pavement in the direction of a nearby park. His fiery hair looked a bit knotted and untidy, but it still responded gracefully to the short gusts of wind blowing down the street. 

Aziraphale felt rather numb, but he did have his wits about him enough to remember that Crowley had left his two quiche dishes, which Aziraphale had cleaned for him earlier in the morning. He placed them in a cabinet underneath the sink (he wouldn’t see Crowley again until after the break, he assumed, and that wasn’t for another month), and contemplated pouring the coffee he’d made for him down the drain. On second thought, he poured it into the flower pot on his windowsill—surely it wouldn’t do the begonia any harm. 

The whole ordeal had gone considerably worse than he had planned. _Far_ worse, in fact. He had expected Crowley to be just as apologetic as he was, and agree that what they had done was a silly drunken mistake that they could ignore or laugh off in the future. He certainly wasn’t expecting to learn that Crowley had been under the impression that he had wooed Aziraphale months ago. 

He couldn’t deny that he was terribly attracted to Crowley. Not only his lithe body and beautiful features, but also his way of being, which was so different from Azira’s buttoned-up demeanour. Crowley was kind and generous, and such a gentleman—it was no wonder Aziraphale hadn’t realised the miscommunication sooner! Crowley was too polite to push the matter of their lack of physical intimacy, and Aziraphale had just interpreted Crowley’s behaviour as general niceness, not some sort of cautious courtship. 

As soon as Aziraphale had woken up that morning, he immediately knew that he wanted things to revert to the way they were before the evening of debauchery, if that were at all possible. When he could just admire Crowley from afar, without the pressures of being in an actual relationship with him. 

Aziraphale had let himself observe the redhead up close before he went to take a shower and eventually break it to him. Crowley had been sleeping peacefully with one arm across Azira’s chest, which sent a shiver down Azira’s spine. His freckles dotted his skin like stars in the sky, and his breath came in slow and steady sweeps. Watching him so closely had been lovely, but Aziraphale didn’t let himself get too fond of it. 

Because the truth was that Aziraphale was scared of what falling in Love could do to him. He had little experience with relationships, and even less with being in love. The one time he’d been in love, his partner had ended the relationship right before exams. Aziraphale had been so distracted by heartbreak, he’d ended up having to repeat a semester of coursework. He was scared to risk something like that happening again; and, he admitted to himself, he never wanted to put Crowley through any kind of heartbreak either. The last thing Aziraphale wanted to do was hurt him.

He hoped that snogging him, giving him a blowjob, and then kicking him out of his flat the next morning with a firm refusal of any further physical contact hadn’t already done that. 

\---

Crowley tried to ignore the sting in his eyes as he walked past the duck pond, and assured himself that the dampness of his eyes was due to the harsh winter wind. He didn’t want to return to his flat, so he resolved to take a very long and roundabout way back. He doubted marking exams would take his mind off the disaster that was his first and probably last night spent with Azira. 

After getting over the shock of the massive miscommunication between the two of them, Crowley found that what was an even worse blow was the fact that Azira didn’t want a relationship with him. Sure, Crowley should have been clearer and more upfront about asking him out. But now that they’d cleared up that confusion, learning that Azira didn’t even want to be with him was a far worse pill to swallow. 

Crowley was sure that Aziraphale had feelings for him—if it was clear even to Anathema, he couldn’t possibly be misreading the signals. So why was Azira so adamant on not being in a relationship? Was he expecting Crowley to wait until they had both finished their degrees? Which was frankly ridiculous, if time and focus was the only concern. Mary, their fellow grad student, had a whole _husband and child_ at home, and _she_ still managed to get her work done. You couldn’t deny yourself a social life, or a love life, just because you were passionate about studying! Surely Aziraphale understood that… So maybe he really _wasn’t_ interested in Crowley, and it had just been the wine that had gotten the better of him the night before. 

Crowley hummed and hawed himself home, trying to tell himself that Azira _did_ like him as more than a friend, but just needed things to go a little slower. Perhaps the winter holidays were just what they needed to cool things off, and start again on the right foot at the beginning of the new year. 

For a split second, Crowley considered typing these thoughts into a text message to send to Azira, but thought better of it. Instead, he took a scalding hot shower and went through an intensive skincare routine, since he’d foregone all of that the night before. He gathered his pile of final exams, grabbed a red correction pen, and got to work, Lucifer still dead to the world on his bed, apparently not even aware of his owner’s absence the night before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for any errors!  
> i hope to be back with another chapter soon :)  
> thank you for reading


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s very weird to write about a stressful university semester when i’m not currently in one haha  
> take care of yourselves! 
> 
> this is angsty i suppose, although i'm not sure i would qualify it as such. that might just be because my default setting is already angsty? not sure, i'm a bad judge of my own writing
> 
> hope you enjoy!

**1 month later**

Crowley was back in town after the holidays. His hair was cut. His skin was clear. His plants were watered (both figuratively and literally—his real plants had been left in Newt’s care during the break, and so far it seemed that they were none the worse for wear). He felt ready for a fresh start. Healthy habits. Clear mind. He was going to pour everything into his coursework, dissertation proposal, and teaching, get the most out of his decision to get a PhD. Regular exercise. Clean eating. What could go wrong?

He was not thinking about the note he’d found in his mailbox when he’d gone by the offices to drop off the marked exams at the end of the last semester:

_Dear Anthony, Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think it best if we kept our distance from each other in the upcoming semester. I know we may have said some harmful things to each other, but I hope we can put those things behind us. Perhaps after the break, we can both focus on being good classmates and teachers, without any unnecessary distractions. Best wishes, Aziraphale F._

Other than that, he hadn’t heard from Azira since the night of the party. As soon as he’d gotten back in town, he’d gone to check for another note in his box, but all that he found were the essays he’d written, marked up by the professors (surprisingly, he’d done very well in all his classes). 

(Crowley also tried very hard not to think about every time he had texted Azira last semester and deleted the kiss emojis at the end before sending it. Every time he’d signed his written notes with a smiley face instead of a heart. He caught himself wondering if the whole misunderstanding would’ve been cleared up sooner if he’d not held back. If he’d started calling him “Angel” and “Darling,” and not kept such a respectable distance. Maybe then Azira would’ve caught on, and spared Crowley some of the sleepless nights. Every time such thoughts invaded his mind, he shoved them into a compartment that could be sealed away and imagined as not existing. Not seeing Azira on a daily basis during the break certainly helped.) 

And so approached the beginning of the second semester of grad school. On the one hand, Crowley at least knew what he was getting himself into this time round. What worked best for him, in terms of scheduling work and down time, and what was to be avoided at all costs (leaving essays for the last minute was one of those things). What to expect from a seminar, and what the professors expected of him. Crowley feared that having a new group of students to teach would bring back his anxieties about not being good enough, but all he had to do was remind himself that they were nervous students as well, and he felt better about it. 

On the other hand, the main reason Crowley had been doing so well in the last term, he suspected, was the support he’d gotten from Aziraphale. Crowley assumed, given the note, that this was not something he could count on anymore, as much as it pained him to think about. If Azira wanted distance, Crowley would give him distance. He just hoped his well-being wouldn’t be too affected by the distance. 

Nonetheless, Crowley wondered how he could possibly avoid awkward encounters with Azira, given that the TA suite was still their shared office space, and Crowley wasn’t about to find a new coffee shop just because Azira had been too stupid to realise they’d been essentially dating. When they inevitably had class together and had to provide feedback on each other’s assignments, Crowley dreaded the faux-politeness with which they’d probably have to conduct their interactions from now on.

He got himself a journal, and hoped that journalling would relieve some of the stress and simultaneously stand in for the comfort and companionship he’d be missing from Aziraphale. Fat chance that would work, but it was worth a shot. 

\---

Anathema had been the first and only one to hear about the unfortunate turn of events regarding Crowley’s love life (to be fair, she had also been the only one who knew Crowley and Azira were “together” in the first place). Crowley had overshared on their drive to the train station, nearly taking out at least three unlucky stop signs in the process. Anathema had assured him that Azira would surely come around, if not before the start of the semester, at least once they'd gotten back to seeing each other on a regular basis. Take the holidays to decompress, she’d said, and come back ready to try again. 

He doubted Azira would want to try again, no matter how much he’d managed to decompress over the holidays. Crowley prowled cautiously around the French department the first week back, careful not to round any corners too quickly. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop him from bumping into someone, quite literally, on the first day back. He’d been slinking down the corridor with his head down, forgetting that there was a swinging door that opened onto the walkway from the stairwell. In a moment of purely cinematic proportions, the door whacked Crowley’s head in one fell swoop and he was thrown backwards. He was 99.99% certain that, given his general luck in situations like this, it would be a very angry Aziraphale coming out from behind the offending door. 

“NgK,” Crowley hissed involuntarily, rubbing his forehead where there was sure to be a nasty goose egg bump later on. 

“Sorry, sir,” said a soft voice, although clearly quite rattled by the collision. 

Once his vision went back to normal, Crowley looked up to see his old student, Adam Young. “Oh, hiya Adam. No need to call me sir.” 

“Why’d you cut your hair?” It always puzzled Crowley how Adam could be so formal and polite, but then go asking highly personal questions as if they were best mates. 

“Er… just fancied a change,” Crowley replied, still tenderly stroking the sore spot on his head. Perhaps if he hadn’t cut his hair in a moment of rashness, he would’ve been able to cover it up rather than sport a massive lump for the following week that made it look like he’d either gotten into a fight, or fallen in a spectacularly un-cool fashion. “How was your holiday?”

“Yeah, alright. Didn’t really do much.” Adam had clearly let his hair grow over the break—it now was a scraggly mess falling over his forehead and ears. 

“I didn’t see you on my register, are you not taking French anymore?”

Adam grimaced in response. “I had a conflict with my Environmental Studies class. I had to take the evening French 102 class with Professor Device,” Adam bemoaned. 

“Ah. Anathema Device,” Crowley nodded, as Adam pouted. “I’m certain you’ll like her.” Crowley was fairly sure that that was not a misjudgement, based on what he knew about both of them. 

“I really wish I could be in your class, though. Pepper, Wensley, and Brian are all in Professor Fell’s course. I was going to ask you actually—me and the rest of the Them want to continue our project from last semester, with your and Professor Fell’s help. Do you think we could still do it even though I’m in a different section?”

Crowley remembered with a jolt the long-term French project that he and Aziraphale had been helping them with throughout the previous semester. It was a rather elaborate research project on Joan of Arc, specifically on her trial for charges of suspected witchcraft. Adam and the rest of the students were uncannily fascinated by the whole thing, and had worked very hard to set up a website dedicated to her story. 

“Oh yeah… well I’m sure Anathema Device would be happy—nay, thrilled—to let you continue with that,” Crowley said reassuringly. 

“So we can go back to our regular meetings?” Adam’s eyes widened as if Crowley had told him he’d just spotted a flying saucer coming straight towards them (another one of Adam’s eclectic interests). 

“Oh, well—not with me. You’ll have to talk with Az– Mr. Fell and Ms. Device to arrange that. But I’m sure it’ll be no problem.” 

Adam stared at him dejectedly. “Fine. Have a nice day, Professor Crowley.” And with that, he joined the throng of half-asleep undergraduate students on their way to class.

“Nnnggll,” breathed Crowley. “Not a professor.” He headed to the French department lounge, hoping to find some ice for his head. 

\---

“What happened to you!?” Anathema trilled, in what Crowley perceived as a mocking tone. He seethed in response, crossing over to open the freezer.

“You didn’t spot Azira and then fall flat on your face, did you?” Anathema was clearly trying to suppress a giggle, and Crowley was having none of it.

“It was one of your students, I’ll have you know! Satan’s spawn, that boy. Watch out for Adam Young,” Crowley spat from beneath a packet of frozen peas. Why someone had frozen peas in the department’s communal freezer was beyond him, but it was a stroke of luck for his injury. 

“I have some CBD oil that can help you with that,” Anathema stated sagely. She was wearing her favourite marine blue dress, with high-laced boots and hair pulled in a tight bun. “So I take it you haven’t seen Aziraphale yet, then? He just was in here a moment ago.” 

Crowley grunted what vaguely sounded like a no. 

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” Anathema gathered her syllabi from the copy machine, then mercifully changed the subject. “Have a nice holiday?” 

“Eh. Alright, I guess.” 

Anathema looked at him expectantly, awaiting more. “Get a lot of reading done?”

“Absolutely not.” He’d spent many hours draped over various uncomfortable surfaces in his godmother’s house, failing to focus long enough to digest even a paragraph of writing. The lack of structure to his day, the absence of a schedule to keep him going, made it a hundred times harder to find the will to work. Not to mention that his mind had kept wandering to Azira, who had probably been reading dutifully throughout the break. 

“Good. Neither did I. We can both be grossly unprepared for this semester’s seminars.” She winked at him and patted his arm. Crowley made to flinch dramatically, and Anathema rolled her eyes. “Come over to my flat later tonight, we can chat over reruns of _Doctor Who_ and get you patched up.” 

\---

To his surprise and slight dismay, it was much easier to avoid Aziraphale than Crowley could’ve guessed. They no longer taught in the same classroom, and their schedule was as such that they rarely accidentally ran into each other. Crowley couldn’t quite make out if Aziraphale was purposefully budgeting his time on campus to not be in the offices at the same time as Crowley, or if it was simply a convenient byproduct of that semester’s schedule. 

Whatever the reason was, Crowley hardly ever saw Aziraphale outside of the two seminars they were both in. Even sitting within a metre or two of Aziraphale, it took no effort at all to avoid eye contact with him. This was largely due to the courses themselves—they were far more difficult than last semester, and lecture-based rather than discussion-based. 

In Medieval Studies, Mme Ledieu droned on and on for the full two-and-a-half hours, allowing for only one five-minute break in the middle. Crowley was not the biggest fan of Medieval literature in the first place, and he particularly hated the 14th century. It took all of his willpower not to fall asleep in class—he couldn’t get through it without a triple-shot espresso and a variety of chocolate sweets to perk him up. At least the _Roman de la rose_ was saucy enough to provide the occasional humorous remark and lighten the mood. 

In 17th-Century Theatre there was hardly a moment to lift his nose from his notebook as he scribbled down everything the professor said, let alone notice what Aziraphale was doing on the other side of the room. 

The readings for both classes were tedious and in Old or Middle French, which made them doubly difficult to comprehend. Long nights were spent in the stacks of the library, rather than at home journalling or watching television in the company of his cat. There was the added stress of the looming deadline of a dissertation proposal, which would have to be approved by the Graduate Studies Committee. 

Weeks passed in quick succession, and Crowley lost track of how he spent his days. He wasn’t even quite sure, day to day, if he’d gotten any sleep at all. He went to bed with French verses running through his mind, and woke up plagued by the same rhymes. He lived on coffee and digestive biscuits, with the occasional salad thrown in for the sake of “health.” He hadn’t been to a concert, or seen a new movie, or walked anywhere at a leisurely pace for weeks. Some days it felt like he was drowning, like someone was pushing his head underwater and only letting him above the surface to breathe for a brief window of time on Saturdays. He was so busy, he hardly had time to lament the lack of contact with Aziraphale. If he had the time, Crowley probably would’ve given in and begged Azira to be his friend again by now. 

Despite the constant clench in his stomach and the proximity he felt to some sort of edge, Crowley was doing exceedingly well. His students seemed unaware of his crippling state of anxiety, and were showing an astounding dedication to learning French. He was miraculously on top of the readings for his courses, and already had ideas for research papers for both of them. Regular meetings with his advisor, Professor BZL, had him going in the right direction in preliminary research for his dissertation. From the outside, it would seem that everything was very much under control. 

On the inside, it felt rather like he was behind the wheel of a burning car, flames lapping at his sides. Crowley knew he was good at faking it—how else would he have been able to cultivate the cool and collected swagger he’d come to depend on?—but this was going a little too far even for him. If he managed to make it through the semester without snapping, it would be a feat of miraculous proportions. 

\---

Sometime near the half-term, Crowley found himself sat on the uncomfortable bench outside of Professor BZL’s office. He’d received an email from them asking him to come in for a meeting outside of their regular scheduled meetings about his dissertation. Crowley had no idea what it could be about, and tried not to worry about it as he waited by the door, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth as he hurriedly corrected grammar worksheets. 

The door creaked open and BZL beckoned Crowley inside with a curt nod. Once seated in the shabby chair in front of the cluttered, and frankly quite grimy, desk, BZL surveyed him with their light-grey eyes. “The DGS tells me you’ve been doing quite well in her Medieval course, Crowley.” 

Crowley wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so he simply nodded tentatively. 

“And you produced very impressive work in my course last semester, as you know.” 

“Thank you, professor.” Crowley was wildly uncomfortable receiving praise, even for things he’d worked very hard for. He narrowed his eyes before returning his gaze to Prof BZL’s face. 

“Do you know why I’ve called you in here?” BZL almost seemed to be enjoying making Crowley squirm with discomfort in his chair. When he didn’t respond, they went on. “Are you familiar with the annual Comparative Literature conference hosted in Paris?” 

Crowley found his voice, albeit briefly. “Heard of it.”

“Every year, the university sends two graduate students from the department to present papers of excellent quality at the conference. This year, the Graduate Committee has selected you as one of those lucky students.” BZL paused to allow Crowley to react. All he managed was to gape in silence. 

“All your expenses will be paid. It’s a week-long conference, and you are expected to attend it even on the days you won’t be on the panel yourself. It’s a great opportunity to network, meet other scholars in your field, and see what other exciting research is being done out there. You could also use the trip to visit the archives and get some research done on your dissertation topic, which as you know, I believe is quite promising. What do you say? You’d have to confirm with me by April, and the conference takes place in early June.” 

Crowley was dumbstruck. Never in his life would he imagine someone would be paying him to go to France and talk about his research. “I… thank you, professor.” 

“Take spring break to think about it, decide what you’d want to present on, and come back to me with an answer. Does that sound good?” 

Twenty minutes later, still in a daze, Crowley found himself in the library. He looked over the sea of students, scanning for the familiar round glasses and dark hair. He spotted Anathema at their usual table, against the start of the tall bookshelves that stretched far back into the bowels of the building. 

“Anathema,” Crowley half-whispered breathlessly. “You wouldn’t believe, I just came from Prof BZL’s office, and they want me to go to that conference thingie in France this summer!”

Anathema let her book flop closed. “Really!? Crowley, that’s great! Will you have to be on a panel or anything?”

A worried look crossed Crowley’s face. “Yeah, I’m going to have to come prepared to present some research. I’m not entirely sure I want to.” He let himself collapse into the seat across from her. “But it _is_ all expenses paid, to _France_ , and it would look really good on any job application, I suppose.” 

Anathema was about to respond when a shock of white-blond hair near the book stacks caught Crowley’s eye. Aziraphale had emerged from behind the closest shelf, and had clearly heard the interaction. When Crowley met his eye, Azira said, “Congratulations, Crowley. You must be so happy.” 

Then he burst into tears and took off down the narrow space between the shelves of books at a run. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've put together a playlist of songs i listened to while writing this fic, or that i associate with crowley and aziraphale. i might link it here once i finish the story - would anyone be interested?
> 
> thanks for sticking with this story!  
> 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for even more angst, but i had to do it
> 
> hope there aren't tooooo many typos in this chapter! i'll come back and edit later maybe if i feel like it

Crowley had cut his hair. That was the first thing Aziraphale noticed when he returned to the grind in Tadfield Hall after the break. He caught the unique hue of Crowley’s hair bobbing in the crowd of returned students—at first he didn’t think it was him and was confused as to how another person could manage to find a dye that perfectly matched the auburn-coppery locks he’d become accustomed to seeing. A second later, Aziraphale realised it was not an impersonator, but Crowley himself. 

Aziraphale didn’t get a chance to fully appreciate the haircut until he found himself in seminar, with a clear view of the man in question. In the first hour of the Medieval lit class, Aziraphale stole glances across the room, silently mourning the loss of the long, beautiful sheets of fiery hair. So much harder to run fingers through when it was that short, fewer ways to style it—couldn’t plait it, for example. It looked _really_ good plaited. Such a shame. 

By the end of the seminar, Aziraphale was completely converted. The soft, flowing locks might be gone, but the shorter style brought out one very important part of Crowley’s body : the back of his neck. Now it was on full display, no matter what Crowley did with his hair. Unless he wore a scarf, that is. 

His neck was beautiful—long and thin, but not in a worrisome way. The haircut was slightly uneven, leaving one tuft of hair curling upwards on one side, towards his ear. Aziraphale could see the curl of hair, and the vulnerable spot of exposed skin behind the ear, when Crowley turned his head to look at the chalkboard. The professor had scrawled a number of important dates and terms there, but Aziraphale was finding it hard to concentrate on them with something equally if not more important within his sight. He imagined peppering kisses onto the exposed skin behind Crowley’s ear, then trailing down his neck to his collarbone. The thought of it caused Aziraphale to wriggle uncomfortably in his seat.

Medieval literature was a class that Aziraphale had been looking forward to. Their first text, the allegorical love poem _Le roman de la Rose_ , was a work he’d always wanted to read, but never had the patience to actually slog through. Now, as he was assigned to read it, he was meant to be reading it from an analytical perspective—comparing the poetry of the first half, written in the 13th century, to the second half written 100 years later, exploring what those differences indicated about changes in the literary culture. But all he could think about as he toiled through the verses was how much he felt like the narrator—awoken from a dream where he had met the perfect lover, a lover who was now woefully out of his reach. 

Aziraphale peered in Crowley’s direction as often as he dared, but Crowley never mirrored the glances. He was always looking down at his notes as he jotted something down, tongue held between his teeth in concentration, or screwing his eyes up at the board. Aziraphale never caught Crowley hastily looking away from Azira’s general direction, or sneaking a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. 

Aziraphale felt ashamed of this sudden inability to avert his eyes in Crowley’s presence. As Mme Ledieu lectured on the Lover’s senses in the poem being overwhelmed by his love for the rosebud, Aziraphale blushed at the thought that he understood exactly what the poet was trying to convey. Except that in his case, the rosebud was Crowley, and he was right in front of him, not imprisoned within the walls of a garden. 

\---

This semester was an important one for Aziraphale. Now that he was adjusted to graduate-school life, earnest work on his research could take a front seat. Ideally, he would’ve gotten more preliminary work done over the break—he should have nailed down a corpus chosen for his dissertation by now, for example. 

Unfortunately, the holidays hadn’t been as productive as he’d hoped. He’d stayed in town for most of the month off, with the intention of taking advantage of the empty flat and unpopulated campus to get as much work done as possible. However, the empty library had just served as a reminder of his loneliness, and waking up alone in his bed was worse than he remembered it being ever since Crowley had left it. 

Once everyone returned from the holidays, the emptiness around him simply transferred itself to Aziraphale’s insides, beginning to consume him. He thought he could fill it by working harder and devoting more attention to whatever assignment he should be working on. But the spark of joy he used to feel when digging into the meat of a text was no longer reaching him. Even teaching his students wasn’t providing much respite from the gnawing hollowness he felt in his chest. 

Aziraphale hadn’t had a lick of alcohol since the night of the party. He spent most of time in the depths of the library to avoid his flatmate, or else at a different coffeeshop a little bit farther away from campus. He didn’t see Crowley outside of classes, and Crowley was doing an expert job at avoiding eye contact during the seminars. It was clear he was following Aziraphale’s suggestion to a tee. 

Aziraphale wasn’t going to backtrack on that suggestion now. Crowley clearly didn’t need his company anyway—he was thriving. The presentations he gave in seminar were excellent, thoroughly researched, not a single error in his French. He seemed passionate about his work as well, something that Aziraphale found severely lacking from his own presentations and projects. 

The only indication that Crowley was struggling at all was perhaps that he looked a bit thinner than Aziraphale remembered, sharper around the edges. His clothes hung a little more loosely, and there were the perpetual dark circles beneath his eyes. But Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to discern these small changes if he didn’t spend the entirety of every class period glancing repeatedly in Crowley’s direction.

He was a little worried for Crowley’s well-being, but he didn’t feel in the position to express concern. He knew Anathema was watching out for him. Besides, he should be focusing on a multitude of other things that were not the well-being of his old friend/boyfriend-without-his-knowledge. 

\---

By the halfway point in the semester, Aziraphale was feeling pretty stupid. He’d only left that note for Crowley because he thought it would help them both. He’d imagined that the time away from each other would serve as a nudge for them to engage more with what they were passionate about : literary analysis, and the French language. 

As midterms loomed closer and students all across campus started to really buckle down, Aziraphale reached a realisation : the reason he was having more trouble engaging with material this semester was because Crowley wasn’t there to distract him. It seemed counterintuitive, but without the activities he used to do with Crowley, Aziraphale was overworking himself. Hence, his energy was at an all-time low, and his work was the worst quality it had ever been. 

It was thanks to Crowley that he’d found the strength and the will to get through the workload; without that, work became an all-consuming beast that plagued him everywhere he went. 

Aziraphale came to this realisation in the middle of a meeting with Professor Gabriel Angelot. He’d been called in by the professor to discuss the upcoming dissertation proposal, after Aziraphale had nagged him about a meeting for what seemed like months (and actually had been months). 

Professor Angelot’s schedule was so busy, it was nearly impossible to find a meeting time that would work for him. Thankfully, the professor had seemed generally enthusiastic about Aziraphale’s preliminary research, and only had a small list of suggestions for adjustments that he should make to his proposal before the deadline. 

“Now, Aziraphale, I also wanted to bring up another topic today.” Aziraphale felt a flutter in his stomach—he had a small inkling of what this could be about, and in the back of his mind he hoped he was right. The annual literature conference in Paris was a coveted invitation amongst graduate students. He looked expectantly at Professor Gabriel, who continued. 

“Nothing to be very concerned about, but Professor Ledieu brought it to my attention. She said you haven’t been up to quite your usual standard this semester, in comparison to your performance review last semester. I just wanted to make sure everything was - - -”

Aziraphale zoned out as Gabriel carried on. This was not what he had been expecting. Quite the opposite, in fact. He knew he’d been struggling this semester, but he hadn’t thought it would be bad enough to be apparent to the professors. His hopes about the conference dashed, he let his eyes wander around the clean, sparkling office. 

There were no pictures on Professors Angelot’s desk, or anywhere else in the room. The only indication of a personal life was a framed poster from an academic conference that had autographs of the participants scrawled across it. Aziraphale found himself wondering if the professor had a family, or friends. If he ever got out of the university bubble, did anything spontaneous. 

After reassuring Gabriel that he had a handle on things and intended to better, Aziraphale made the split decision to make time for friends again, no matter the risk to his academics. He hurried back to the TA offices and was thankful to find Anathema there, feverishly highlighting in her book of collected medieval poetry. 

“Anathema,” he interrupted, “I was wondering if you’d like to get some work done together. In the library perhaps. I’m a little tired of being cooped up in Tadfield Hall. What do you say?” 

Anathema looked up from her book and her frown of concentration immediately softened into a smile. “Of course, Azira.” She started gathering her things, brandishing a tin before putting it back in her bag. “I have shortbread,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.

Aziraphale already felt better, and ready to tackle some of the reading Professor Angelot had recommended for his research. 

\---

The library was packed to near capacity, with students as well as their nervous energies permeating the entire building. Anathema led the way to a slightly secluded table, a heavy, old-fashioned wooden one that was mercifully empty. Along with Crowley, he and Anathema had spent many late nights at this very table during the last semester. Aziraphale almost felt lifted up by the fond memories, even though they had always come here to do work, not have fun. He hadn’t realised how much he missed his friends til now. 

He and Anathema settled into the familiar chairs, stacking up a pile of books in front of them. Instead of reading them, however, they caught up with each other. Aziraphale was immensely grateful—his eyes were perpetually bloodshot and strained from the sheer amount of time he spent reading on a daily basis, so it was nice to take the pressure off by looking at another person rather than a page of words. 

They chatted about how things were going, and what they liked and didn’t like about the classes this semester. Anathema brought up the Joan of Arc project Adam had been pestering her about, and Aziraphale brought her up to speed with the project. They tentatively agreed to suggest regular meetings with the four students starting after spring break. Finally, Aziraphale told Anathema about his meeting with Gabriel.

“It’s not just you, I think we’re all finding it harder this semester. I haven’t been to a concert in ages!” Anathema exclaimed, trying to comfort Aziraphale by offering the tin of shortbread biscuits. 

He nibbled on one as he continued venting. “Yes, but see, I _thought_ I had been keeping on top of things. And besides, the classes this semester are really important for my dissertation topic. I’d been hoping to take one of my papers to a conference this year to get feedback on some early research… but at this rate, it looks like it’ll take all my effort just to stay afloat in the classes.” 

“I’m sure you’re fine, Azira. You could still be asked to the conference.”

Aziraphale sighed and looked down at his notebook where he had written a list of all the things he needed to get done, including a selection of books he should look at. “Well, I’d better get to work, then. I’m going to go look for these books, I’ll be right back.” 

He wandered through the maze of shelves in search for the books he needed. The smell of old pages, freshly printed pages, books that hadn’t been opened for years and books that were regularly consulted, all soothed his senses. Holding the volumes in his hands, feeling the weight of them, grounded Aziraphale. Once his hands were full, he headed back towards the table.

Approaching the end of the shelves, he stopped short when he heard what sounded like Crowley’s voice. Aziraphale inched slowly along the bookshelf, keeping out of sight but straining his ears to listen. 

He hadn’t heard Crowley’s voice for a long time. Not like this, when he was talking to a friend. Crowley was animated and gesticulating with his arms, Aziraphale could hear it in the lilt of his voice even though he couldn’t see him yet. 

Anathema said something in response. Over the tops of the books on the shelf right in front of him, Aziraphale could now see his friend. Crowley looked outrageously tired, and a little chaotic. His hair stood up in all directions, and Aziraphale had the suspicion that it wasn’t intentional. 

He watched Crowley collapse into the chair across from Anathema, apparently unaware that the stacks of books there belonged to Aziraphale. Even though the stress was coming off Crowley in waves, Aziraphale detected a triumphant air about him. 

As Crowley replied to Anathema, it dawned on Aziraphale what they were talking about. Crowley had just been selected to present at the conference in France, the one that Aziraphale coveted so badly. 

A series of emotions washed over Aziraphale as he finally stepped into view from behind the shelf. First and foremost, shock that Crowley had been selected instead of him. Then, reason kicked in and Aziraphale remembered how well Crowley seemed to be doing this semester. Much better than Aziraphale, he knew that much. Crowley clearly didn’t rely on Aziraphale for anything—he was doing fine without him; better, in fact, than he had been doing when he and Aziraphale were close friends. Aziraphale couldn’t help it—a twinge of jealousy erupted within him. 

Then Crowley looked up and all of the antagonistic feelings that were stirring in Aziraphale vanished instantly. He had missed Crowley’s eyes so much, especially the delicate eyelids and soft expression when he made eye contact with Aziraphale. Even from a few feet away, the unique colour of his irises stood out when he saw Aziraphale, his eyes widening in surprise. 

Aziraphale didn’t trust himself to say much—he could already feel weeks of pent-up tears surging to the surface, threatening to take him over. Before they arrived, he choked out a feeble congratulatory message. His vision blurred as his eyes welled up with tears, so he turned on his heal and took off at a trot, mostly failing to suppress a sob. 

Aziraphale clutched the books to his chest and weaved through the stacks, taking several turns to avoid being followed. He heard Crowley’s voice calling in the distance, dampened by the walls of books. 

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale, where are you?” Aziraphale turned another corner, flying past books about the French Revolution. “I can’t find you,” Crowley exclaimed, his voice getting closer, but still several rows away.

In his haste to find a hiding spot, Aziraphale realised he had got himself into a dead end—which he was bound to run into, the library did have to end at some point. The shelves came to an end and Aziraphale reached a dark wall, with a very small window several feet off the ground. It was too fogged up to see anything out of it.

He panted and tried to regulate his breathing before Crowley inevitably found him. It didn’t take very long—he saw Crowley race by in a flash of black and red, heard him skid to a stop and then backpedal, before he was jogging down the row Aziraphale was cowering in.

“Azira,” he gasped, coming to a stop a few feet away from him. “What’s wrong!?”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley’s concerned face. “Everything’s… tickety-boo!” 

“Tickety-boo? What does that even mean?” Crowley stepped closer and Aziraphale drew a sharp intake of breath. Crowley stopped and raised his hands slowly, then pried the books out of Aziraphale’s arms, placing them on an empty shelf next to them.

Without the books, Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with his hands. He let them drop to his sides, his head dropping to stare at his feet. “I… think I’m doing things wrong.” He stopped, before he could start crying again. When Crowley didn’t say anything, Aziraphale chanced a glance upwards. Crowley’s expression of understanding and reassurance urged Azira to continue. 

“I’ve had a terrible semester… and I think it’s because…” Aziraphale paused. He didn’t want to sound too dramatic, or like he had been pining for Crowley for months on end. 

“Because you missed me?” Crowley flashed a toothy grin and raised an eyebrow. 

Although it was the truth, Aziraphale played along with the teasing. “No, you self-centred git,” he laughed, shoving Crowley’s arm lightly. A beat later, he continued. “Because I was wrong about success being dependent on how much time I spend locked up with no distractions.” He sniffled and looked back down at his feet. He braced himself for Crowley’s triumphant I-told-you-so moment.

Instead, Aziraphale felt his body being pulled into a hug. Crowley’s arms encircled his shoulders and tightened around him until he had no choice but to relax into the embrace. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist and let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. When he breathed back in, his nostrils were met with the familiar scent of spices and coffee. 

“Well, _I’ve_ missed you,” Crowley’s muffled voice said after a moment. From the feel of his warm breath, he could tell that Crowley had buried his face in Aziraphale’s curls. 

They held each other for a few more moments, until Aziraphale’s breathing was back to normal and there was no longer the threat of hot tears gushing down his cheeks. Crowley pulled away and clasped Aziraphale’s arms before letting go. He picked up half of the books from the shelf and handed to the rest to Aziraphale. 

“Let’s go catch up, shall we?” Crowley turned on his heel and strutted in the direction they’d come from, looking back to make sure Azira was on the same page.

Aziraphale nodded and followed Crowley down the long row of books, doing his best to keep his eyes off the expanse of skin exposed below his hairline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really did not pay attention in my medieval lit class, BUT i do remember some weird and horny/erotic stuff going on in roman de la rose, hence mentioning it in this chapter *shrug*
> 
> this story is alllmost done (i think i'll wrap it up with one more chapter). however, this is a series and i'm considering maybe writing a smut chapter, as well as a follow-up story, so if those would interest you, subscribe to the series!
> 
> thank you so much to everyone following along and leaving comments! it's been such fun
> 
> as promised, [here's](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1MzcfeOdcIPFwJlmL9A0pm?si=XpOBxbAAQAmdSOCP2SJALA) a spotify playlist i listen to sometimes. i feel like it's pretty easy to relate things to good omens if you want to, but also it's subjective so idk. it's mostly just music i like or have listened to recently


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter! thank you to everyone who has been reading this, i've loved receiving comments :) i hope you enjoy the ending

Anathema looked around at the students in the library. Some of them were hunched over papers, noses centimetres away from the surface as they scribbled furiously. Others were typing furiously on MacBook Pros, airpods firmly placed in their ears. Some were whispering amongst themselves and sipping expensive drinks from the café. None of them looked like thieves, but you could never be too sure on a university campus. 

Rather than leave their belongings unattended and go help comfort Aziraphale, Anathema stayed put at the table. Crowley could handle it on his own, and she had been telling him for months that he and Aziraphale needed to stop avoiding each other and make up already. She opened up her laptop and started drafting an email to her students about midterm exams. 

Several minutes later, Azira and Crowley emerged from the stacks and Aziraphale was guided back into his seat. Crowley plopped down in the chair next to him and gave Anathema a small smile before reverting his attention back to Aziraphale. 

Azira’s eyes were red-rimmed and a little watery, but there was a weak smile spreading across his face. He tore his gaze away from Crowley to look at Anathema.

“Are you alright, Aziraphale?”

“Yes, I’m better now, thank you. Sorry about my behaviour. It was silly.”

Anathema shook her head. “It’s been a really stressful semester. There’s nothing to apologise for. We’re all a bit out of sorts.” 

“Yes, it’s been awful,” Crowley added, baring his teeth. 

“I think we should go to Heavenly Brew tonight,” Anathema suggested. “Sod the reading for tomorrow, we deserve it!” Both of her companions nodded in agreement—they weren’t about to resist a way to get out of reading the medieval epic they’d been assigned. 

“Er, Crowley…” Aziraphale murmured, lowering his voice.

Crowley replied immediately, leaning towards Aziraphale in his chair. “Yes?” Anathema rolled her eyes. She couldn’t believe these two. 

“Would you mind terribly to help me carry my books back to the office? I don’t think I can get any work done right now… I think I’m going to go home and rest for a bit.” 

Before Aziraphale was even finished speaking, Crowley snapped out of his seat and started gathering the various books on the table. He did it hastily, but smoothly, refraining from making any sudden movements. 

“See you two later, then?” Anathema smirked and crossed her arms as she watched Crowley suddenly remember she was also at the table. Aziraphale simply beamed at her. 

“Yes, dear. Good luck with your work, I look forward to seeing you again tonight.” Aziraphale shrugged his coat on. “And thank you for the shortbread and the chat,” he added warmly. 

“Anytime. See you, Anthony.” Crowley scowled as he did every time Anathema teasingly used his first name, hoisting Aziraphale’s books into his arms. It was a considerably tall stack, and he looked like quite the gentleman despite the grimace on his face. 

“Yeah, see you witch girl,” he retorted, ignoring her meaningful look. 

Anathema watched them weave through the sea of armchairs and tables to the front of the library and smiled to herself. Maybe they would finally get their shit together and be fun to hang around with again. 

\---

Crowley very cautiously ushered Aziraphale up to the front desk of the library to check out his books. Now that Aziraphale was talking to him again, Crowley couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off him. After abstaining for what felt like forever, the sight of Aziraphale was even more enrapturing than he remembered it to be. Crowley sincerely hoped this wouldn’t spook Aziraphale out too much, and spoil what would hopefully be a relationship on the mend. 

Aziraphale approached the front desk and smiled at the tired grad student working there. If it weren’t for Aziraphale’s slightly red eyes, no one would be able to guess he’d been crying not half an hour ago. 

Crowley placed the stack of books he was carrying on the desk, then leaned against it and blatantly watched Aziraphale. How he fished into his pocket to find his student ID card. How his fingers fumbled and the card dropped before he could hand it over. How, when Crowley picked up the card and handed it to the librarian, Aziraphale touched his wrist and gave him a look of pure gratitude. 

When the desk worker had finished scanning all the books, Crowley circled around Azira to pick up half of them. The pair walked out and crossed the campus. Again, Crowley couldn’t keep his eyes trained in front of him—they kept sliding sideways to take in Aziraphale’s shoes, his prim way of walking, his strong hands gripping the pile of books, his slightly unruly hair. Crowley felt a flutter in his stomach whenever he caught Azira’s blue eyes returning the glance.

There was a small courtyard contained in the centre of Tadfield Hall—it was almost like a greenhouse oddly placed in the middle of a drab, old-fashioned building. It was covered, but the ceiling was transparent and let in the beams of light from outside. After dropping books off in the office, Crowley and Aziraphale found an empty bench in the courtyard. 

In the daze of being back in Aziraphale’s orbit, so to speak, Crowley found himself completely at a loss for what to say to him. He breathed in Azira’s scent and found that it helped him to regulate his breath. The past months, he felt as if he hadn’t been breathing properly—like his lungs hadn’t been getting enough air for his brain to function. 

Crowley was about to open his mouth and utter something terribly embarrassing about how much he’d missed their time together when Aziraphale spoke. 

“Congratulations again about the conference, Crowley. I mean it, I think you really deserve it.” Aziraphale no longer seemed pained to say it, like a vice was clenching his insides. He looked sincere, at ease; even a little proud. 

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t know how I got it,” he said, incredulous. It still hadn’t sunk in, but to be honest, he was already over it now. Getting to talk to Aziraphale was far greater a triumph. 

“Your hard work has paid off,” Aziraphale supplied, as if it were obvious. 

“Yeah, but I’ve been miserable lately,” Crowley stated matter-of-factly. “‘M not sure that’s worth all the misery.” 

“Perhaps,” said Aziraphale with pursed lips. “You’ll still go to the conference, I hope?” A shadow of unease flitted across Azirpahale’s face, a slight crease appearing between his eyebrows. 

“Possibly. I haven’t decided yet,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Why, what’s wrong, Azira?”

“I’m just worried…” Aziraphale quieted and wrung his hands in his lap. 

“Worried about what?! If anyone should be worried, it’s me! I have no idea what I could present on!”

“No, I have complete confidence in you, my dear. I’m just worried that if you and I… start, er, seeing each other again. That might be a big distraction for you. I wouldn’t want to hinder your advances in academia.” Aziraphale’s eyes darted between Crowley’s face and a strange fern in the corner of the courtyard. 

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley hissed. He took one of Azira’s hands to reassure him that his exasperated tone was not meant to be malicious towards him. “Advancing in academia is not worth it if I can’t live my life. I don’t give a flying fuck about the conference, I refuse to lose my sanity and my friends over it. Work is important, but not if you put it before living.” 

At that, Aziraphale squeezed his hand and rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right, Crowley.”

Crowley just about melt into a puddle at Aziraphale’s words and gentle touch. 

\---

Aziraphale was experiencing a roller coaster of a day. It had started out as one of the worst he’d ever had. Then, despite having got no work done and generally acting very weepy, it had turned out to be one of the happiest days in recent memory. 

At that moment, Aziraphale was contentedly ogling Crowley from across the table in their booth at Heavenly Brew. He had a full pint of lager within his reach, but the lively face in front of him was of far greater interest. 

Crowley was vibrant as Aziraphale hadn’t seen him in months. He let out loud bursts of laughter, throwing his head back to expose the beautiful lines of his neck. He ran his hands through his hair, not in an anxious way, but to keep the unkempt strands from getting in his eyes (it was starting to get long again in the front, and Aziraphale wasn’t complaining). The apples of his cheeks were rosy and full from smiling, and he even had dimples. Every so often, his eyes found Aziraphale’s and flashed a glimmer of golden elation, shared just between the two of them.

No one had mentioned the 4000 lines of _La chanson de Roland_ they were meant to read for seminar the next day. Anathema was on her second pint and was spouting theories about everything that was being affected by Mercury’s retrograde. Newt was listening with rapture and throwing in the occasional strange phenomenon for Anathema to address. Eve had also tagged along, and was tearing up a plate of chips as if she hadn’t eaten in days. 

Looking around, at his friends, Aziraphale knew he was making the right decision. On other evenings such as this one, he would ordinarily be locked in his room or tied to an uncomfortable library chair, forcing himself to absorb words, words, and more words. It felt nice, for a change, to just let harmless banter from his friends surround him, no need for analysis. He could just listen passively, and focus instead on how lovely Crowley was looking. How radiant, dashing, devilishly handsome, he was. 

When the group decided they’d had their fill of greasy food and alcohol, Aziraphale still felt unsated. Everyone went their separate ways, except for him and Crowley. They stood on the pavement and smiled at each other drunkenly, although neither of them had had more than one drink. 

“Walk me home?” Aziraphale asked cheekily. His flat was only around the corner, and he knew Crowley would understand what he really meant. _Come home with me, stay a while._

Crowley nodded, and they were off. Aziraphale felt what must be nerves in his stomach. The way Crowley had been looking at him all day, he didn’t think he was mistaken in where this was going. But there was that perpetual shadow of doubt, that nagging sensation that Crowley might not be after a relationship, despite their quickly mended friendship. Aziraphale knew that a simple conversation would solve this confusion, and that it was a conversation that had to be had eventually, but for now he didn’t want to spoil the magical quality of the evening. 

Aziraphale unlocked his door and was met with a cloud of weed smoke, emitting from the sofa that Michael was sprawled on. 

“Hey,” Michael grunted. It was the extent of most their greetings. 

“Crowley, my flatmate, Michael,” Aziraphale said politely. “Er, should we go back to my room? Or would you like something else to eat or drink?” 

“No,” Crowley answered at once. “Your room’s fine.” The look in Crowley’s eyes was even more intense now, searing and soft at the same time. 

Aziraphale lead the way to his room and shut the door behind them. He turned around to find Crowley in very close proximity, his breath hitting Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale felt an energy flicker between them, not unlike the night after the party. 

“Can I kiss you?” Crowley sighed. 

In response, Aziraphale wrapped a hand around the back of Crowley’s neck and pulled him down, sealing his mouth in a kiss. In an instant, Aziraphale hit the door as Crowley backed him up against it, hands trailing along his body with finesse. One of Crowley’s legs wedged between Aziraphale’s as Aziraphale ran his hand experimentally through Crowley’s soft hair. 

As they kissed, broke apart, and then deepened the kiss, a soft moan escaped Aziraphale. Crowley’s body was in contact with his in all the right ways, but he still craved more. His hand scraped at Crowley’s chest, feeling the lean muscle underneath the shirt that sent a shiver down his spine. 

Crowley’s hands were at Aziraphale’s elbows, gently guiding him towards the bed while he continuously kissed him with hunger and passion. 

“Wait a moment, dear,” Aziraphale gasped when they paused for breath. His hands were hovering at the buttons of Crowley’s shirt, but he restrained himself. 

“Sorry, am I going too fast?” Crowley panted. His lips were swollen and perfectly parted, Aziraphale almost abandoned his plan and undressed him right then.

“No, it’s not that,” Aziraphale managed to say between pecks along Crowley’s jaw. “I just… Michael’s here. And I’d rather us continue this… in private.” He threaded fingers through Crowley’s hair, mussing it up even more than it already was. “Take me to your place?”

“Mm,” grunted Crowley. “So far away,” he pouted. “And my cat’s there, the little bastard.” He nuzzled the crook of Aziraphale’s neck in protest.

“We can close your bedroom door so he doesn’t bother us,” Aziraphale soothed. “And I’ll spend the night, if you like.” 

At that, Crowley perked up and loosened his grip on Aziraphale. “Alright then, angel. Pack your things.” He stepped away reluctantly. 

Aziraphale gathered a few overnight items and a change of clothes, as well as some books, into a bag while Crowley watched. Aziraphale had offered him a seat while he packed, but Crowley had refused it and leant instead by the doorway, arms crossed impatiently. 

“Oh, I have some biscuits in the kitchen, cranberry-orange biscotti dipped in chocolate,” Aziraphale remembered with an excited wriggle. Crowley didn’t look too keen, but he followed him to the kitchen and took the tin that Aziraphale pressed into his arms. 

“Ready now?” Crowley said under his breath. 

“Yes, now I’m ready, dear. Lead the way.” 

Crowley seized Aziraphale’s free hand and walked him through the living room, right past Michael. Michael probably didn’t care, but as they walked out the door, Aziraphale turned to address him. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Michael.” 

Michael certainly didn’t care, hardly shifting his position on the sofa to see them out. 

Crowley tugged his arm to hurry him along in the stairwell. They stepped out into the cool night and swiftly headed in the direction of Crowley’s flat. 

“Relax, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for a nighttime jog, as eager as he was to snog Crowley senseless. “We have plenty of time. There’s no rush.” 

Crowley abruptly stopped walking, turning to gaze at Aziraphale. His eyes were wide and full of emotion. Crowley leaned in for a slow but heated kiss. When he pulled away, his body was at ease, he was no longer tugging at Aziraphale’s hand to rush him towards their destination. “You lead the way, angel,” he said, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's so hard to write endings, i hope this one was satisfying enough! as i said before, i'm probably going to come back to this AU eventually, to do a little follow-up story that will take place in France
> 
> in the meantime, i have an idea for another aziraphale/crowley AU and i might also work on a few things for other fandoms. 
> 
> PLEASE bother me on tumblr ([@georginabulsara](https://georginabulsara.tumblr.com/) and [@georginawriting](https://georginawriting.tumblr.com/)), i'm always looking to procrastinate there. also [here's](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1MzcfeOdcIPFwJlmL9A0pm?si=A7AgmtvVSzSgnI8VPjsu8g) the link to my GO spotify playlist again 
> 
> thank you sooo much for reading! it's been a pleasure :) take care and don't go to grad school if you don't want to :P cheers
> 
> (If you liked this story, [check out my other Good Omens Human AU!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983457))


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